


The Poet's Wife

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bottom Will Graham, Evil Plans, Facial Shaving, Hannibal Lecter is Not a Cannibal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, King Hannibal Lecter, Kings & Queens, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Will Graham, Marriage, Master/Servant, Medieval Medicine, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plans, Plot, Poetry, Poisoning, Potions, Princess Mischa Lecter, Prison, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Servant Will Graham, Slow Burn, Swordfighting, Top Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-01-29 14:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 64,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21411793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Will is captured during the war and made a personal servant of the King, Hannibal Lecter. He has heard from his friends who were sentenced to the fighting pits that if they win one hundred battles, they earn their freedom. He decides to attempt the same; one hundred nights with Hannibal, earning his favor, so that he can be free. Of course, life in a castle, and serving Hannibal, is far more complicated than that.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 407
Kudos: 1350
Collections: Hannigram Kinkmeme





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Good freakin' God y'all, this story took over my life. It will be 8 chapters and it's already complete, so updates will come quickly. Probably every day honestly because I'm excited for you guys to read it. 
> 
> The noncon and child abuse tags aren't between Will and Hannibal, though one could argue as a slave Will's consent is mildly dubious, but I make a point of having Will consent as much as he can in his position. Believe me, he makes the first move.
> 
> Written for this prompt in the Hannigram Kinkmeme: Will heard that a gladiator who wins 100 battles earns his freedom. He was given as a personal slave to Hannibal, so following that logic he figures he can earn his freedom if he gives Hannibal 100 orgasms. Hannibal figures out what he's doing and starts resisting Will's charms around orgasm 70/80 but at this point Will has caught feelings and actually wants to have sex with him. Dealer's choice how it's resolved but happy non-slavery ending preferred. Maybe with Will being Official Consort or one of Hannibal's advisors.
> 
> The tags are only somewhat spoiler-y, I wanted to try and put them all up so I didn't forget anything. I wrote this in like four days, I'm not kidding when I say this story grabbed me by the neck and wouldn't let go. I hope you like it! Enjoy <3

It has been a long march, and everyone is tired. It's a smart man who keeps his head down and keeps moving, simply grateful for every moment they can claim they are still alive. Beside him, the man Will would call his friend simply because they have been marching together for so long stops, stares up, his eyes wide as they crest the mountain pass and can see, for the first time, the sprawling city that will now become their home.

Thick smoke clouds billow up from the west border of the city, its high walls separating the folk within from the sight of burning mud, straw, and bodies. Slavery is not quite outlawed in Will's homeland, and he knows it's common practice for this new one. That is what they have all been taken for – offerings, for the King that is soon to be their master. Prisoners of war, or pillaged from towns the army overtook and plundered. The women and children are kept separated from the men and Will has heard the enemy soldiers more than once laugh at how they clutch at each other like frightened lambs, bleating with distress.

His upper lip curls, but he refuses to say anything as one of the guards, a man on a giant black horse and brandishing his short sword at Will and his friend, kicks him harshly in the shoulder and yells at him to keep going. Thankfully he doesn't have to worry about a language barrier, for their people were cousins, once, and share most of their vocabulary. Dialect and accents are the only thing he needs to worry about.

They trek down the mountain and make camp at the base. It is another half day of walking until they reach the city gates. Will winces, hearing the soldiers laugh and cajole each other, and curls his fingers around the pen in which they keep the captured men. Will is not a soldier, he was not taken after a battle, he is one of the men who came from a village. He is not foolish enough to think he could have turned the tide of the war on his own, but he is penned in with other soldiers, and he knows they judge him for not wearing armor or any fighting garb, marking him as a 'soft' one, one who did not take up arms to fight.

"Stop staring," he friend hisses at him. He's about Will's age, hair brown and short-cropped, eyes black in the darkness. Will sighs, and moves away from the iron cell gate, settling on his back so he can gaze up at the stars. Beside him, his friend is entertaining himself with rubbing one slightly sharper stick against a block of wood. Whittling, though he imagines it's slow going with the wood so moist and without the proper tools.

Will turns his head so he can watch. "Did they get you at Arrandale?" he asks, recognizing the softer vowels, the drawl that is associated with the river people. His friend nods, and Will sighs, closing his eyes and tilting his head forward again. "I heard your brothers fought well."

"Died well, too," his friend replies with a grunt. He pauses, the soft _scht _of the wood ceasing, and Will meets his gaze again. "And you? Where do you come from?"

Will smiles. "The Pass."

His friend blinks at him, and his head tilts. "I thought the Pass was uninhabitable," he replies.

"We make do," Will says. He sighs, and folds a hand behind his head, stretching his legs out until his hip pops, and settles with another sigh. "They caught us mid-migration. Otherwise they wouldn't have found us, I imagine." He huffs. "I like to imagine."

"I think we'd all like to imagine certain things," his friend says darkly. Beside him, another man, with the stature of a bear and a forever-grim face, gives a gruff 'Hear, hear!'. "What do you think they mean to do with us? Seems a waste to march us all this way only to end up on a pyre."

Will hums, his nose wrinkling. This close to the city, he can smell it; the pervasive scent of death, crawling along his skin. He can't imagine how the residents stand it. Or perhaps they're used to it by now.

The bear-like man stirs again, and says; "We'll be sold to whoever wants to own us. If the King does not claim us first."

Will frowns, and lifts his head.

"They like watching men fight," the bear-man adds. His voice is more clipped, more proper. He came from the plains, Will imagines. "The women will be auctioned off as house slaves, or sold to the brothels. The children…" He trails off, and shrugs.

Will's nose wrinkles again. "How basic," he murmurs. His friend blinks at him again. "It is foolish to think all men fight, and all women should be kept in the home."

"I think I would prefer to fight," his friend says. "I hear the King has a rule that if you win one hundred battles, you are given your freedom. It is not so great a number as to be impossible."

Will hums. "Maybe."

"You are not a fighter though, are you, friend from the Pass?" the bear-like man says with a rather wide, smug smile. "Maybe you'll be lucky and a pretty noblewoman will take a liking to you."

Will laughs, and rolls onto his side. "And I'll serve her while she watches you fight," he teases, earning another bellowing laugh from the bear-like man. "What is your name, friend?"

"Jack," he replies.

Will sits upright, and holds out his hand. "I hope your hundred victories come swiftly, Jack," he says, and Jack shakes his hand with a bruising grip. Will turns to his other friend. "And yours…?" He trails off, silently asking for a name.

"Randall," his friend says, and shakes his hand again.

"And your victories, Randall," Will murmurs.

"What is your name?" Jack asks.

"Will," he replies. "I doubt I would last as long if my destiny is that of a gladiator."

Jack laughs. "There are other victories to be had, if a woman takes you," he says with a lecherous grin. "It is harder to please a woman than to kill a man." Will grins, and flops back down on the moist ground, digging his shoulder into the earth until he manages to work it into a semi-comfortable dip for him to sleep. He folds his arm under his head to act as a pillow, and Randall goes back to whittling.

"I'll take your word for it," he replies lightly. "I've never had trouble pleasing a woman."

Jack guffaws, and slaps a hand down on his thigh. Randall gives him a lopsided grin. "Perhaps a wager, then," he says brightly, and looks between the two of them. "Whoever earns his freedom first, his first act as a free man will be to buy the other two a drink."

"You've got a deal," Jack says.

"You're all fools, if you think it will be so easy," another man says, and Will tilts his head to spy a fellow warrior, hunched tight on himself, for he is very tall and takes up more space than even Jack, and the pen is small with so many of them packed together. He has a scar on his upper lip, forcibly showing two of his teeth, and thick bandages around his shoulder from a recent wound. "With talk like that you'll all be executed as an example."

"The ultimate freedom, then," Randall replies coolly, and goes back to his little project. "Sometimes a fantasy is good for morale, Francis." Will smiles; Francis and Randall share the same way of speaking, he is not surprised they know each other.

Francis huffs, and turns his face away, glowering at the nearest campsite where several of the enemy soldiers have gathered, splitting mead and ale and roasting meat. The scent causes a kick of hunger to stir in Will's belly, but he ignores it. They have all had their rations for the day and will not be expecting more.

"Whatever gods you worship," Will says, "I hope they smile on us when we reach the capitol."

"And yours," Randall says. Then, he sighs, abandoning his work, and slides down so he's lying next to Will. They have been given no blankets, and the night is cold, and most of them have been stripped to threadbare clothing and are shivering with sweat, coiling together like nesting dogs. Will closes his eyes and, despite his discomfort, it is not difficult to fall asleep, for he is so tired from marching for so long. Whatever fate awaits him, it will be a welcome change from so much walking.

As they enter the city, Will understands how the people can stand to be around so much burning flesh and dead flora; the markets are the first things they pass through, and are rich with the scents of spices and soaps, clogging his throat and making it difficult to see through the plumes of smoke. They walk with the garrison that captured them, several of the natives staring at them with wide eyes. Some with sneers. One man spits on the ground near Francis' feet, and Will hides a smile as Francis eyes him, snarling in challenge. He is quick to quiet as a guard gives him a warning shove, and they walk on.

The palace itself is huge, imposingly black, made of the same stone that the mountains are, and glimmers in the rising sun with flecks of silver and fine white veins. It is shaped like a claw, outspread like the paw of a great beast with a single tower in the center, and a wide courtyard fringed with the same stone. A large portcullis rises for them, and closes behind them with an echoing boom.

They are separated by gender – men on the right, women and children on the left. It is easy to see which child has a mother, for they clutch at their little ones and cast furtive glances to the men herding them like nervous sheep surrounded by wolves. Will swallows, finding that, of his own group, only one woman was taken with this load. Her name is Molly, and she holds her son tightly to her stomach, and meets Will's eyes.

Will nods at her. The Pass folk are not known for their fighting prowess, it is certain, but they are a hardy bunch, capable of living in inhospitable terrain. Will has seen woman of his tribe hunting bears and boars and any other creature that tries to make itself at home in the mountains, and they are gifted with knowledge of plant life and all things poisonous.

The doors leading to the castle stand open, almost welcoming were it not for the situation, and Will stiffens and turns his eyes to it as a horn blares out, calling their attention.

The captain of their garrison steps out and turns to them. "Kneel before your King," he commands. The women and children kneel immediately, for they are the people who understand that submission means survival. Will kneels swiftly as well, though he notes men like Jack and Francis are slower to lower themselves to the ground.

When they are all kneeling, Will lifts his head. The first group of people to come out are clearly courtiers, well-dressed nobles with fine robes and silk, some of them adorned with golden wreaths around their heads. There are over thirty, and Will swallows as they spread out, forming a ring, a semi-circle along the grand steps. Next, a smaller troupe emerges – advisors and higher nobles, Will would guess. There are ten of those in total, marked with the Royal crest in broaches on their robes above their hearts.

Then, they go still, and look to the doors. Will's breath catches when he sees the King emerge. He has heard tales of Hannibal the Conqueror, how he has singlehandedly slain more than a thousand men in a single battle, how he once captured an entire town with nothing but his wit and his charm.

He has a stern-looking face, and reminds Will of old idols he has seen in temples of gods no longer worshipped. The crown upon his head is made of gold, and shaped like short antlers amidst a field of interlocking vines. He is wearing red, the color of his house – not robes, but a series of leather plates forming armor, and a huge sword hangs from his belt, almost long enough that the blade touches the ground even at his full height.

Truly, he is an imposing and powerful-looking man, and Will does not doubt the stories about him in the slightest.

The courtiers and noblemen bow to him, and he walks down the steps, his hand on the pommel of his sword to angle it up and stop it catching on the steps. He walks out until he is standing at an equal distance between the captured men and women, and smiles.

"Rise," he commands, and they obey silently. Hannibal nods, and approaches the group of women first. They do not shy from him, but the group grows noticeably denser, all of them trying to hide away lest they risk his wrath. He stops a fair distance from them, and a woman from one of the inner circles comes forward. She has golden hair, and is dressed in the color of dark wine. Hannibal turns to her and murmurs something too low for Will to hear, and she smiles at him, and nods.

Hannibal turns back to the group of women. "Who amongst you took up arms against my warriors, when we approached?" The woman shift, looking at each other nervously, and Hannibal's smile widens. "Come now, I am not so vain as to think you are all incapable, simply because of your sex. Honesty will earn you richer rewards than fear."

Will is not surprised to see that Molly is the first to lift her head, and her hand, gaining Hannibal's attention. He circles the group so he can see her clearly, and his eyes fall to her son. "You fought?" he asks, his voice giving away neither surprise nor disbelief. She nods. "Did you fight well?"

"As well as I was able," Molly replies, and, after a second of hesitation, says; "Your Majesty."

Hannibal hums. "How many did you kill?"

"I could not tell you," Molly says. "I lost count."

To Will's surprise, that answer seems to delight Hannibal, and he nods. "Do you think five years of service in a house, from you and your son, is enough to repay the blood debt?"

Molly blinks at him, and lets out a shivering exhale. "A generous offer, my King, but only you can tell me if it is a fair one."

Hannibal considers this, and then gestures for another nobleman to come forward. He has black hair, slicked with oil back to his skull, and moves like a spider, prowling closer to the King. "I am not interested in fairness," he says lightly. "It would be fairness that commanded you were never taken from your home and placed here. No, what I am interested in is honesty, and loyalty. So I'll ask you again – will you and your son serve a house for five years, during which time you will be obedient, and loyal, and a free citizen once that time has passed?"

Molly swallows, and pets over her son's face. "Yes."

"Good," Hannibal says with a nod, and smiles at her, before he turns away. The man he summoned does not approach, but pulls out a sheaf of parchment from his sleeve and notes something down – likely her service terms. Hannibal gazes upon the crowd again. "Who else fought?"

Several hands go up, and Hannibal approaches the nearest one. "How many did you kill?"

It goes on like that for near an hour, as Hannibal asks the warrior women what damage they did, and negotiates their service in response. Will cannot find a true pattern, for it seems that Hannibal is judging them based on their behavior, and less on their prowess. When he is finished with those who are willing to admit they fought and killed his soldiers, he gestures for the black-haired man to take his quarry, and they are herded out with him and several soldiers. He doesn't know where they go, but assumes it must be to some auction where families can purchase their terms.

What's left are the women and children who did not fight. Hannibal stands before them and says; "You have two options, in accordance with the law of this land. You may go to the general auction, where you might be placed in a house, or purchased by our merchant friends, or sold to the brothels. If you do not wish to go to the general auction, you may choose to remain here, and you will serve the castle and its nobles in whatever way they deem suitable." He pauses, and adds; "I can promise a comfortable life, and no untoward attention from your masters and mistresses. The minimum length of service in the castle is twenty years."

Will winces. Such a long time.

"Decide now," Hannibal says, and holds out his hands. "The castle on my right, the general auction on my left." He holds up each hand in turn.

Will is not surprised to see that most of them elect to the general auction. A potential for smaller stretches of service is worth that service being worse, than twenty guaranteed years submitting to the whim of pretentious nobles. Hannibal nods, and another courtier comes forward to mark down the quarry, and the ones who chose to the general auction are led out. Three women remain who elected to be in the castle, and Hannibal gives them warm, welcoming smiles, and approaches the first.

"What is your name?" he asks. Will does not know her, but sees that she is young, and beautiful, and stands unmoving, refusing to show fear.

"Alana," she replies.

"Alana," Hannibal repeats, and nods. "Tell me, Alana, what did you do for your people, before you came here?"

Alana swallows, and dips her gaze to Hannibal's feet. "I was a nurse," she says. "I made potions and poultices for when my people grew sick, and assisted the midwife with births."

Hannibal's eyes flash, his head tilting in intrigue. "Excellent," he murmurs, and she lifts her eyes again. "You shall be an apprentice and assistant for our doctor, then. Lord Chilton!" he calls, and a man comes forward. Will's upper lip curls at the mere sight of him, his skin far too pale to look healthy, one of his eyes greyed out. He doesn't like the look of Chilton's smile. "Meet Alana. She is yours for her term of service. Treat her well."

Chilton nods, and gestures for Alana to follow him. As she passes Hannibal, Hannibal catches her arm and draws her near, whispering something to her that makes her blink in shock, and flush. She nods, and scurries on her way.

The second woman; "What is your name?"

"Beverly," comes the reply.

Hannibal nods, and takes her hands. "You were married," he says, noting the tan line around her finger. She nods, and Hannibal jerks his head towards the group of men. "Is your husband among them?"

"No, Your Majesty," she replies. "He died in battle."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Hannibal murmurs, and Will is surprised to find that he sounds genuinely sympathetic. He turns her hands over, and makes another sound. "You have a worker's hands. Did you make armor, or weapons?"

Beverly smiles. "You have sharp eyes, Your Majesty."

Hannibal smiles at her. "Our farrier is in need of extra hands. Do you think you can be of service there?" Beverly nods, looking startled, and Hannibal releases her, gesturing for not a nobleman to come forward, but one of the soldiers. "Tell Mister Price that he has a new student, and be sure he treats her well." The soldier nods, and gestures for Beverly to walk with him, and they leave the courtyard through a small side door.

The final woman lifts her chin in readiness when Hannibal eyes her. "Your name?" he asks.

"Freddie," she says. "And before you ask, I did nothing."

Hannibal smiles. "A perfect mind, then, to do everything," he replies. The woman cloaked in red comes forward and Hannibal gestures to her. "Freddie, this is the lady Bedelia, and she will be your mistress. You, her handmaiden." Freddie clenches her jaw, her nostrils flaring, but she gives a reluctant nod, and Bedelia turns away, Freddie following behind with a few of the other courtiers.

Hannibal turns to regard the group of men, and Will shivers, biting his lower lip as Hannibal's eyes rake over them all. He approaches, until he's close enough Will can see that his eyes are dark, shining ocher and red in the sunlight.

His head tilts, and he holds out his hands again. "Those of your who took up arms, stand here," he says, gesturing to his right. "Those that did not, here." His left hand curls, indicating the open space.

The crowd parts immediately, and Will is the only one who ends up standing on the left. Hannibal eyes him curiously, and lowers his hands. Will refuses to hunch, to cower, under the weight of the King's gaze, but he cannot deny that it feels heavy on him – not judging, he senses, but incredibly curious.

Then, Hannibal turns away from him, and the weight lifts. Will breathes out and runs a hand through his hair.

"You may already know this, but my people have a rich and ancient history of fighting games," Hannibal says. "If you elect to join them, you will be trained under the finest swordsmen in the land, and have your chance to find fame and glory in the arena. You will serve the one who purchases you for the rest of your natural-born life."

He pauses, and sighs. Will watches curiously as his jaw clenches, and he lifts his head again. "If you do not wish to fight, you will be executed for your war crimes immediately, or be sent to the mines." A loud snarl of anger ripples through the warriors, and Will bites his lower lip and is glad, suddenly, that he cannot be counted among them. Though he's not sure where he will be placed, the option to fight or die has never sat well with him, and if he can be spared the choice, he will gladly take whatever fate awaits him for it.

And it is interesting, for it seems Hannibal does not like this verdict any more than the warriors do. Will looks out to the courtiers and wonders which of his advisors have pressured him to make such a law. Surely, as the King, he can do as he sees fit. There are politics at play, here, and Will wonders if he will live long enough to see them.

The men are separated, and Will watches as Randall, Francis, and Jack all are led with those who volunteered for the fighting pens – all of them chose the fighting pens. He lifts his hand in a farewell, and Randall smiles at him and gives him a wave in answer, before they are led out with most of the guards.

"A friend of yours?" Will startles, wide-eyed as he looks at the King, finds Hannibal watching him with an amused smile, his eyes shining. Will drops his hand and swallows, looking down at his feet. "What is your name?"

"Will," he murmurs.

He goes still when Hannibal cups his chin, forcing his head up so their eyes can meet again. When his hand drops, Will senses it would be unwise to let his gaze fall away again, so he swallows and forces himself to maintain their eye contact. Hannibal is standing close enough to lunge for, to harm, though Will is no fool and doesn't think he would accomplish anything if he did. He's not a fighter, never has been.

"Will," Hannibal says, his voice low, soft, accented for his homeland. He tilts his head and Will's shoulders tense as he resists the urge to mimic. "What did you do for your people, that means you did not take up arms against mine?"

Will wets his lips, curls his fingers and holds them behind his back. "A little of everything," he replies. "I hunted, fished, made sure we were kept safe."

Hannibal's eyes flash with intrigue. "Where do you hail from?"

"The Pass."

"Ah." Hannibal's smile is wide, showing his teeth. "That makes sense, now. A man cannot stick to one role to ensure the survival of the tribe in that place." He pauses, considering, and says; "I'm given to understand that the Pass is rich with minerals and resources, but in terms of nourishment is somewhat lacking. Am I correct?"

"If you don't know what to look for, sure," Will replies, unable to stop his lips pulling into a small, off-kilter smile. "I don't think it's unlike a castle, in that respect."

Hannibal blinks at him, his expression one of utter delight. "Inhospitable, but rich with resources, for certain," he replies. "And you swear you did not take up arms for your fellow countryman, and that everything you have told me is true?"

Will nods. "I swear, Your Majesty."

"That settles it, then," Hannibal declares. Will frowns, and Hannibal's gaze rakes over his body, making Will shiver and feel heavy again. "Come with me."

Will's frown deepens as Hannibal turns away from him, but he follows after a moment of hesitation, hurrying up to keep pace as he follows Hannibal, slightly behind him and to his right so he doesn't inadvertently catch himself on the King's sword. The courtiers and nobles break formation to go about their day, and he's led into the castle.

It looks even more impossibly large on the inside, with vaulted ceilings and windows taller than two or three men stacked together. The inner floor is marbled in patterns of black and white swirls, there are paintings on the walls framed with gold. Will does not have time to admire them, too intent on keeping up with Hannibal's long, swift strides, but perhaps if he has time later, he will.

"The first order of business is to bathe you and find you something to wear," Hannibal says, tossing the words over his shoulder. "Are you partial to your beard?"

Will flushes, and scratches over the hair. "Not particularly," he replies.

"Good. It will have held smells from your travel here and the easiest way to be rid of it is to sheer it all off," Hannibal tells him. He leads Will up a long staircase, which branches at the top left, right, and forward. He turns right, through a smaller archway, not slowing for a second. "You will bathe every day before sunrise, eat breakfast, and then begin your duties."

"I -." Will swallows. "Forgive me, but what exactly will those duties be?"

Hannibal stops, so abruptly Will almost collides with him, and lets out a sheepish little laugh. "No, you must forgive me. I have a habit of skipping ahead of myself," he says, and turns to regard Will. "You will serve me, personally." Will blinks, lets out a little gasp of shock. "I cannot promise you how the day may change, but your bare minimum will be bringing my meals, cleaning my room, and fetching various items for me as necessary. You may also, if you're so inclined, accompany me to council meetings and the like."

Will wets his lips, curls his fingers. Hannibal's head tilts. "Speak, Will," he says. "I encourage questions, and openness."

"I…. I simply think it's a huge gesture of trust," he murmurs. "Before last week I was an enemy."

"And now you are a servant," Hannibal agrees with a nod. "Tomorrow, you might attempt to be an assassin, yet you have said yourself you do not wish to fight. What you have told me suggests a nurturing and adaptable nature, which I find sorely lacking in my present life." Will cannot think of anything to say to that, and Hannibal smiles, and rests a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry; you will be far too busy to plan a coup, and I intend to be as gracious a master as I can. Shall we?"

Will swallows, and follows him as Hannibal begins their journey again. His mind is reeling – never in a thousand years would he have considered he would be the King's _manservant_. And Hannibal has made no mention of the length of time Will might be indentured for, but he imagines it will be a long while. There will be no fighting, just service. Perhaps, if he wins Hannibal's favor, he may win his freedom as well.

Of one thing, he is absolutely certain; Hannibal is like no King he has ever met.

Hannibal approaches a large man standing in front of a pair of grand double doors, which Will assumes lead to his private quarters. He stops as the man straightens, fixing Hannibal with a wide-eyed, puppy-like stare. "Franklyn, this is Will," he says by way of introduction. He turns to Will. "Franklyn will give you the tour and see to your bath and dressing. You can direct your questions to him for today while you grow accustomed to the castle. For now, your only duty will be bringing my evening meal here, at seven." He smiles. "I'll see you then."

With that, he leaves, and Will stares at his back until he disappears around a corner. Franklyn clears his throat, shifting his weight nervously, and gives Will a small, albeit friendly enough smile. "Hi!" he greets, and shakes Will's hand. "It's nice to meet you, Will."

"And you," Will replies.

"Come, this way," Franklyn says, and gestures for Will to follow him down the same hallway. The scents of steam and food waft up beneath their feet to greet him, and Will's mouth waters, but he resists the urge to ask for food. He would do well to keep his head down and not make trouble until he understands, better, what his duties will be and how his time will be managed. He doesn't think he will be run ragged under Hannibal's command, for Hannibal seems like a capable enough Royal, but he also doesn't think he will have hours and hours to himself once he takes over his new mantle for real.

"How long have you served the King?" he asks as he walks behind Franklyn.

"Oh, going on twenty years now, I think," Franklyn replies brightly. Will must admit he doesn't seem upset or bothered by that. "My mother sold me to the castle when I was a boy. I like cooking and worked in the kitchens for a long time. Now I run errands and messages for the King and his staff."

Will hums, noting that to himself. People like Franklyn are invaluable when it comes to information. Franklyn leads him to a plain-looking wooden door and pushes it open, revealing a barren stone room with a single large basin inside it, colored copper. "There's some water and a blade there," he says, pointing to a little desk by the window. "Please shave and undress and I'll fetch the bathwater."

"Thank you," Will murmurs, surprised that they would just leave him here with a weapon. Franklyn grins at him, and shuts the door behind him. The air is cold, and Will is reluctant to undress. He goes to the little bowl and eyes the blade, touching his fingertips lightly to the sharp edge of it. It will do a good job of shaving him. It would do a capable job as a weapon, too.

There is a piece of mirror glass next to the bowl, and he eyes himself, grimacing at the state of his unkempt hair and shaggy beard. It itches, and he greatly anticipates being rid of it. He stands by the bowl and dips his hand in it, first cupping his hand to drink the water, sating his sore throat and dry tongue, before he sighs and rubs the water over his beard, softening the hair to be cut.

He takes the blade in hand and sheers off the first stripe, baring his cheek, and follows it with his hand, rinsing it in the water. He is careful, but efficient, sliding the blade along his cheeks, his jaw, and his neck, until most of it is gone. He's working on the hair around his mouth when Franklyn returns with a large bucket of steaming water.

"Oh!" Franklyn says. "You're much younger than I thought."

Will doesn't know what to say to that. He clears his throat and keeps shaving as Franklyn disappears to fetch another bucket. By the time his face is smooth, Franklyn has filled the basin to halfway, and he turns his attention to his long hair, gripping chunks of it and cutting them off until it falls around the base of his skull and a little onto his neck. He prefers it longer, and hopes Hannibal doesn't make him cut it down to the quick, or any shorter, as seems to be the fashion.

"Here," Franklyn says, when he's done. He sets the blade down and turns to see Franklyn holding out a purple-colored jar. He unstoppers it and breathes it in, the scent of flowers and spices that remind him of the markets flooding his lungs. "Add some of this to the water. I'll be right back with clothes. Don't dally!"

Will huffs, rolling his eyes as Franklyn disappears again. The room is filling with steam, and he approaches the basin, pouring some of the soap into the water. It froths immediately, forming thick, white bubbles, and he sets the jar down and climbs in, hissing at the heat. By the gods, it's been far too long since he had a bath. Most of the time his people would simply wash in the river, and the water is cold and ever-moving. The concept of sitting in so much heat for any length of time is foreign and uncomfortable to him, so he obeys Franklyn's command, washing his hair as best he can and smearing the soap all over his body.

He ducks his head down so he's submerged, and rises with a gasp when Franklyn returns with a set of clothes for him. He takes them with a sheepish smile, blushing when Franklyn does not leave. "Um. Is it customary to watch someone dress?" he asks.

Franklyn shrugs. "You'll have to get used to that; you'll be responsible for the King's baths as well," he says. Will swallows, and sighs, rising from the water in a series of loud drips. He runs his hands through his hair, wringing it of water, and wraps the first layer around himself, which goes across each shoulder and fastens with loose strings at his waist. He steps out of the water and pulls on a pair of soft leggings, shivering when his wet feet meet the stone. Another robe goes over the first, the same rich red as Hannibal's armor – marking him, Will is sure, as one of Hannibal's personal servants.

Franklyn hands him a small towel to dry his hair and feet, and then a pair of boots, which look to be made of calfskin, and lace at his ankles. "There!" he says, clapping his hands together. "That's much better. Come; I'll show you the kitchens, and the best routes to take to gather bathwater."

He reaches into the basin and pulls out a piece of stone that was plugging it up, letting the water drain. Will huffs, impressed despite himself, and follows Franklyn out. It only occurs to him as the door closes that he left the blade inside, but he shrugs the thought away. He is not a fighter, nor does he intend on becoming an assassin. For all the stories and for all his situation, he cannot honestly say that Hannibal is a mean-spirited or cruel King. His people seem happy, even his servants, and the way he handled all of Will's fellow captives is fascinating. Even if it's the illusion of choice, he gave them a choice, and that's more than Will can say he expected.

He thinks of Randall, of Jack and Francis, and hopes they are being treated well, or at least are content with their decision. He wonders what they would say, knowing he has become a personal servant of the King, and laughs to himself. Maybe, one day, he will get the chance to tell them.

The day passes quickly. Will learns all the ins and outs of the castle to the point where he thinks he will not get lost, Franklyn babbling about everything that comes to his mind. He learns which cook to approach for the King's meals, and where the stables are, and learns which color garb means what station; that white is for the servants, red for the King's personal guard, purple for the servants of noblemen, blue for couriers, black for the various ambassadors that bring the King the troubles of his people. He learns that Hannibal became King when he was only sixteen, and has had no wives or children.

He learns where the lady Bedelia's quarters are – Franklyn tells Will that she was the wife of Hannibal's uncle, and therefore has a place of honor in the castle and the court. He spies Freddie, her jaw clenched and pale with rage, carrying a covered chamber pot from the room, and huffs a laugh at her obviously disgruntled expression. He learns that Hannibal often dines with Bedelia alone, and that during those meals he would do well to make himself scarce.

He knows better than to ask questions about that.

Franklyn shows him where to find bathwater, and where Hannibal's favored wine is stored. He learns the location of the library and where they keep the messenger crows, as well as the best route out of the castle and to the markets if the King bids him venture out for anything. Franklyn asks him if he knows how to read or write and seems impressed when Will tells him that he can.

"Oh, it's almost time for dinner!" Franklyn says, and walks with Will back to the kitchens. There is already a platter prepared for the King, and Will takes it after he fetches a pitcher and cup for the King's wine. Franklyn smiles at him and claps him on the shoulder. "Knock, but enter anyway. He tends to get distracted if he's reading."

Will nods. "Thank you, Franklyn," he murmurs.

"Good luck!"

Will takes the tray and leaves, hurrying up to Hannibal's chambers. He doesn't want to be late on his first day after all. He knocks, and then enters as he was bid, eyes widening when he sees the room inside. Opulence is not a word that does it justice – it's a huge room, lavishly decorated with statues, trinkets, and tapestries from far-off lands. There is a giant bed in an antechamber separated by an archway, and the main room has a large wooden table, lit by candles so that it shines in the low light. There is a window, curtains parted, letting in the light of the setting sun. By the window is a desk, thickly laden with scrolls and papers, and Will sees Hannibal at it, the nib of his quill scratching the parchment as he writes.

Will sets the tray down at the head of the table. He's not sure if he should simply leave, after, but he spies that Hannibal's bedsheets are not made, so he goes there to fix them. They smell clean, so he leaves them be. The chamber pot is empty, so he doesn't move it.

By the time he returns, ready to see himself out, Hannibal has stopped, and looks up, greeting him with a fond smile. "Ah, Will. Excellent," he says, and lays down his quill, abandoning his work. He stands and goes to the table, and takes a seat. "Would you mind sitting with me a while? There are some particulars of your new role I'd like to discuss."

Will bows his head and takes his seat at Hannibal's left side. Hannibal removes the cover from his plate and Will's stomach rumbles loudly at the sight; it is a plain-looking meal, when all's said and done. A meat pie takes up most of the center, and there is rice and a cluster of green around the edge, belonging to a plant Will could not name.

Hannibal pours himself a glass of wine, and pauses, his eyes on Will. Will doesn't know how to sit, how to behave, so he straightens his posture and tries to mimic Hannibal as best he can. Hannibal rests one hand on the table, and Will mimics him. Slouches, and Will swallows and lets his spine grow lax.

Hannibal smiles. "Are you hungry?" he asks. "I imagine you haven't eaten much since you were last home. Here." He takes the plate and slides it over, along with a knife and fork. Will's eyes widen and he looks to Hannibal in question. Hannibal waves his unspoken protest away. "I ate late today, and truthfully I will admit if I tire of fowl these days."

Will clears his throat. "I can tell the cook that."

"Oh, don't," Hannibal says with a fond smile. "It would break her heart. She has been the cook here since I was a boy, and I used to love her chicken pies. My tastes have changed, but my affection for her has not."

"You're the King," Will says. "You could command no one ever eat chicken again and it would be so."

Hannibal tilts his head, watching Will with an even gaze. He breathes out. "The man before me was a tyrant," he murmurs. "I will not have people suffer because of my whims." Will swallows, and doesn't know what to say to that. "Eat, Will. That's an order."

Will nods, and takes up his knife and fork. He holds the utensils somewhat awkwardly, unused to such fine and delicate stems, but manages to section off a piece of the pie. The scent of peas, mushrooms, and meat explodes in the air along with a cloud of steam. He takes a bite and closes his eyes, savoring it – he hasn't had fresh meat since the previous summer.

It's delicious, and he finds himself taking his next bite much more readily. He knows Hannibal is watching him, and flushes under the weight of his stare, but his stomach refuses to let him stop. Hannibal is silent, absently nursing his wine as Will eats, until the pie is done. The rice, too. He nods to the green food. "Do you not like those?"

"I don't know what they are," Will admits.

Hannibal blinks, and huffs a laugh. "It's called broccoli," he replies. "A hearty and iron-rich vegetable. Try it," he coaxes, and Will spears a stalk, eyeing the odd tree-like structure. He eats it. It tastes good, as well, warm and crushed easily between his teeth, and he hums in pleasure. "I sense we will be expanding your palette quite drastically over your time here."

Will cannot disagree. He finishes his meal and sets his knife and fork down, and rubs his hand over his face. Now that he doesn't have hair there, his cheeks feel cold, and he's too aware of how obvious his blush is.

"Now," Hannibal says, and Will turns to him, attentive and ready; "You will be given a small allowance in order to purchase additional clothes and any food that strikes your fancy. You are welcome to navigate the castle and the markets as you see fit, as well as interact with people of your status – fellow servants and the like." Will nods. "You must remember, however, that while you wear my colors, you represent me. To that end, I would ask you refrain from visiting the brothels and gambling houses while in my service."

Will nods. "That won't be a problem, Your Majesty. I promise."

"Oh?" Hannibal murmurs, lifting his brows.

Will nods again, looking down. "I find no pleasure in the idea of gambling – it is a fool's venture, for every bet that wins is not worth placing. And I…. I find the idea of whores and brothels altogether unattractive as well."

Hannibal lets out a curious hum. He pauses, and says; "You do not need to tell me, but did you have a wife, Will? Have you fathered children?"

"No to both," Will replies, shaking his head.

"But you have lain with a woman, surely."

Will flushes, shifting his weight. "Yes." He wets his lips, and adds; "Men, too."

Hannibal makes another sound – he does not seem uncomfortable at the idea, merely curious. "Is this a common practice for the Pass folk?" he asks.

"Quite common, yes," Will replies honestly, meeting Hannibal's eyes. "There aren't a lot of us. The relationships we forge are strong, and they might be forged between any two people. Or more."

"More?" Hannibal says, looking surprised.

Will nods. "Children are raised by the whole group," he tells him. "I could not tell you who my father was, for my mother shared herself with many. I only know her face because I look like her, and have seen her take several men to bed in a single night, singularly or in greater numbers." Hannibal's head tilts, his eyes growing dark as the sun sets. "It's not a question of legitimacy, or coercion. The men and women in the Pass choose each other without any expectations."

"Ah," Hannibal murmurs, and nods. "And you cannot ensure such a bond in a brothel. I understand."

Will swallows, and looks down at his hands.

"Did your people practice marriage at all, then?"

"Yes," Will says. "Sometimes."

"Forgive me for saying so, Will, but you cannot guarantee you have not fathered a child, just because a woman who bore one after a night with you maybe not have spent that night with only you."

Will swallows back his instinctive, sharp retort, and glares down at his hands. "I know I haven't," he says instead, crisply. "None of them have become mothers at all."

Hannibal nods his understanding again, and smiles. "I apologize for prying, Will – it is in my nature to want to get to know people. You are my servant, yes, but I will do my best to make you feel at home here. We may even, with your permission, become friendly."

Will stares at him. He presses his lips together. "If you'd like."

Hannibal smiles, and sips at his wine. His eyes skate to his bed, and he lets out a pleased sound to see that Will has dressed it properly. He gestures to the tray and plate, and stands, taking his pitcher and cup with him. "That will be all, Will. Thank you. I'll see you in the morning."

Will stands as Hannibal does, stacking the plate and silverware quickly and replacing the cover. "Good night, Your Majesty," he says.

"Oh, and that's another thing," Hannibal says. Will pauses, looking to his feet. "That's such a long title, wouldn't you agree? You do not need to call me that. 'My Lord' will suffice."

Will bows his head. "Yes, my Lord," he replies, and Hannibal turns away, going back to his desk. Will leaves the room quietly, closing the door behind him. He takes a moment to suck in a steadying breath, now that he can without the weight of Hannibal's gaze on him. Then, he hurries down to the kitchens to return the tray and plate.

He isn't tired, and though he knows he needs to be washed and ready by sunrise, he has never needed much sleep. Hannibal said he could move about the castle as he likes, and so, with that in mind, he lights a lantern for himself, and sets out to explore.


	2. Chapter 2

He finds himself, in the late hours of the night where there is no illumination except the evenly placed sconces and his own little lantern, in a wing of the castle that he can tell is not often trod. The floor is certainly clean, and there are no lingering layers of dust on the suits of armor or various interesting features on display, but he feels a staleness in the air – windows that have been shut for a long time, an old heaviness in the fall of the curtains and rustle of tapestries as he passes by. It is not a well-loved section of the castle, but it is certainly no less grand. The high archway yawns above him, so tall his light cannot penetrate and let him see the ceiling. Every door is closed and locked with a thick iron sliding mechanism, and he doubts he would be able to open any of them silently.

At the end of the hallway is a door, surprisingly plain for all the rest. It is a narrow thing, and holds no lock. Beside the door is a single painting, also notably small and simple. It does not look like it was done by whatever artist the Royal family commission for their portraits – rather, there is a simplicity to it that notes tutelage, certainly, but an unrefined kind. Whoever painted this was not a master by any means, but learned enough and had a good eye for the likeness.

The painting is that of a child, a young girl, hardly older than fourteen by Will's best estimate. The painting has captured her in a moment of joy, her smile bright and wide, her eyes shining, her hair not slicked and tucked into fashionable curls but splayed out, as though she was just roused from sleep, stray wisps of black all in disarray.

He peers closer at it, and his eyes drop to the nameplate beneath. _Mischa Lecter, _it reads, but gives no title, tells him no lineage. Still, he meets Mischa's eyes, and sees a similarity in the shape of her cheekbones and the shades of her iris to that of his King. If Hannibal has fathered no children, he assumes she is a sibling of his. One that was lost, long ago.

He sighs, and tenses when he hears movement. Another light, that of a moving fire, illuminates the end of the hall, and a female voice cries out; "Who goes there?"

Will lifts his own light so the woman can see his face. She comes forward, her features sharp, her hair cut and crimped to mimic Eastern fashion, her eyes black. She is wearing armor Will does not recognize, though it is emblazoned with Hannibal's crest. "You shouldn't be here," she says sharply.

"Forgive me," Will replies, and bows his head. "I was told I could explore the castle as I see fit. I didn't mean to intrude."

The woman's eyes narrow. "You wear the King's colors," she notes, and lowers her torch. "Who are you?"

"My name is Will," he replies. "I serve the King."

"We all serve the King," she says.

Will grins at her. "I am his new manservant," he explains. She nods, lips thinning out, and looks him up and down in consideration. "May I know your name, my Lady?"

"Chiyoh," the woman replies. "And not a Lady by any means." She turns from Will, her eyes alighting on the painting, and for a brief moment, an old echo of sorrow crosses her face, before she schools her expression and looks to Will again. "If the King said you can explore, then I cannot stop you. I would ask that you do not come here again, though."

Will nods, knowing a thinly veiled command when he hears one. He lets his lantern drop and walks away from the room and the painting, and Chiyoh falls into place beside him. "You must be very new, for me not to know your face," she says.

"I was brought in with the captives from the war," he replies. "I have only just entered the King's service." She hums, acknowledging that, and Will wets his lips and continues; "Have you served the King long?"

"All my life."

"Has he always been…?" He gestures vaguely in front of him, at a loss of how to describe Hannibal's behavior. "Like that?"

She laughs. Her smile changes her entire face, softens her and makes her look far younger than Will suspects she is. "Yes," she replies with another smile. "To call him a gentle soul is not quite accurate, but he is certainly a fair one. As fair as one can be, in his position."

That's an odd thing to say. Will frowns, but doesn't comment on it.

"What kinds of things does he like?" he asks.

"A shorter list would be what he doesn't like," Chiyoh tells him. "He detests rudeness, and blatant dishonesty, though he holds respect for capable liars." She stops at the end of the hallway. "He appreciates loyalty. If you have promised him anything, it would do you good to hold to that promise."

"As well as I am able, I will," he replies. She seems satisfied by that answer, and nods for him to leave the way he came. Will does, though his mind lingers on the painting, and on that room beyond it. Perhaps inside there is a shrine dedicated to his sister; or maybe it was her room, when she was alive.

He finds himself at the doors of the library, and pushes them open, eyes wide as he lifts his lantern and finds, like most of the castle hallways, his light cannot reach much farther beyond his head, but he can tell the library spreads out tall above him. He realizes, seeing small squares of grey amidst the black, that he is in the tower. To think that the library stretches up that far is baffling, and Will lowers his light, carefully navigating the shelves and stacks of books. There are a few tables and benches in the center of the tower, bare but clearly the place to take books and read them. On each table is a rolodex and he goes to the nearest one, thumbing through it absently to see that each book has been carefully catalogued and assigned a section, with instructions and descriptions on each tome depicting their age, how to handle them, and where they are located in the tower.

He knows he could easily spend hours in this room; he has always been curious, knowing there was so much of the world he wasn't aware of. The people of the Pass are homebodies, for all their environment makes them nomads. The series of caves where they tend to and harvest their mushrooms and plants are maintained throughout the year, and whenever there was a gathering of one or more from different tribes, they would record and share their knowledge. If a new plant grew that was good for medicine, they learned it. If there had been sightings of bears in an uncommon place, knowledge quickly spread, so that they knew to be careful.

To have so much knowledge in one place, so readily available to him, sends an excited thrill down his spine. Will goes to the nearest shelf and chooses a book at random, finding that is it a story of some great knight from the east who hunted down and slayed monsters. He takes it to the table and positions his lantern so that he can see the writing best, and settles down to read.

Dawn finds Will bent over the book, snoring lightly and drooling onto the table. He startles when he hears the doors to the library open, as well as soft voices, and scrambles to his feet. He eyes the windows, swallowing when he already can see the blue and pink of a new day. He hurriedly sets the book back where he found it, takes his lantern, and rushes from the library and through the small crowd of noblemen who had entered and woke him.

He doesn't have time for a bath, or breakfast, because Hannibal commanded he be served at dawn. He hurries to the kitchens, abandoning his lantern on a windowsill, and gathers the King's breakfast in a rush, barely pausing to give a word of thanks to the cook before he's running upstairs to Hannibal's rooms.

He knocks, and enters, stumbling to a halt when he sees Hannibal in his room, in the middle of getting dressed. He freezes, swallowing harshly at the sight of the King, pulling a tunic over his head to cover his back. It has no sleeves, so his arms are bare, his back broad with muscle, his skin dark, much darker than Will's. His hair is still mussed and he runs a hand through it, shrugging his tunic to a more comfortable position, and grabs his robes, pulling them on with a swish of fine fabric.

He turns, and smiles at Will in greeting, and Will flushes deeply, and sets his tray down.

"Forgive my lateness," he murmurs.

"Nonsense, Will, you're right on time," Hannibal replies, and comes forward, sitting down to eat. Will didn't think to bring him further refreshment, but it appears Hannibal still has some wine from the night before. He stands awkwardly, hands clasped behind his back, and Hannibal looks up and meets his eyes. His brow creases, and he lifts his chin. Will shivers, biting his lower lip as Hannibal takes in an obvious inhale. His frown deepens. "Did you bathe this morning?"

Will's blush darkens, and he shakes his head. "No, my Lord. I'm sorry, I didn't have the time."

Hannibal's head tilts. "Really?" he replies. "I would think the noise in the servants' quarters more than sufficient to wake you."

Will looks away. "I wasn't in the servants' quarters," he replies. "I was in the library."

"The library," Hannibal repeats, and Will looks at him, sees him bracing his elbows on the table, fingers laced to support his chin. "Can you read?" Will nods, and Hannibal's eyes sharpen, shine with a pleased light. He has a way of smiling, Will is realizing, that doesn't move his mouth at all. It's all in his eyes. "And you spent the whole night there?"

"Yes, my Lord," Will replies. "It won't happen again."

Hannibal hums, and gestures for him to come forward. He stands as Will approaches, and Will stiffens as he gently takes Will's wrist in hand, and lifts it to his nose. He breathes in again, and Will shivers, fingers curling, for the action is so undeniably animal, and he's not sure how to react to it.

"I have a sensitive nose," Hannibal explains, meeting his eyes. "It is why I bid all my servants and courtiers bathe daily, using the soaps we bring to the palace. But…" He hums, and breathes in again, eyes closing for a brief moment. "Your natural scent is not unpleasant."

Will is sure his cheeks match the color of his clothes at this point, and Hannibal lets him go, returning to his place. "It's important to remain clean, Will – sickness is a real fear in these parts, and all manner of unpleasant things can find their way to a man's body if he does not keep himself clean. …However, if you choose not to use the soaps you are given, you will find no protest from me."

Will nods. "Of course, my Lord."

Hannibal smiles at him. "Now, come. Sit and tell me what you read about."

Will hesitates. "I'm sure you have more important things to address than -."

"Will." Hannibal's demeanor has not changed, but his gaze holds a subtle edge to it, his voice hardening with command. "Rest assured, if I did not care to know the answer, I would not ask the question. Come sit. If you did not bathe, I can assume you did not eat, either."

Will concedes to that with a sheepish nod, and sits on the left side of Hannibal as he did the night before. His breakfast is a thick ham steak, eggs splayed out atop it, with cuts of another circular yellow fruit Will does not recognize, but likes the scent of. Hannibal cuts into his meal without a word, sectioning off half of it, and sets the other half on a smaller plate which held a roll of bread. He moves the bread and replaces it with the meat, and hands it over to Will.

He gives Will his knife and fork, as well, and Will takes a bite, before he pauses, and says; "My Lord, are you afraid someone is going to poison you?"

Hannibal's head tilts. His lips twitch in an aborted smile. "What makes you say that?"

"Generosity aside, you keep having me eat first," Will says.

Hannibal stares at him for a moment, and then he smiles widely, pleased, showing his teeth. "You are _remarkably_ perceptive," he says. Will swallows, and takes another bite of food. The meat is salty and wet with juice, the sweet fruit a wonderful compliment to it, and the eggs are runny and spill out over the meat, adding their flavor. There are flecks of red atop them, which add a spice and heat Will is not accustomed to, but finds he likes. "I will say that, no, I do not think someone is actively out to poison me. It is an…abstract notion." His head tilts. "I have someone through whom I can filter that threat. I would be remiss if I did not take advantage."

"Right," Will murmurs, somewhat bitterly. "I'm more disposable than you."

"Though growing more and more indispensable by the day," Hannibal replies lightly, neither disagreeing with nor scolding Will for his remark. "I didn't know you could read. That is good – I will be taking advantage of that, as well. Now tell me, what did you read about last night?"

Will hums, and continues to eat, knowing that with only one set of utensils, Hannibal cannot until he is done. "It was a tale of a knight fighting a dragon," he says. "Well, at first a dragon. He encountered all kinds of beasts I've never heard of, and fought them all on his quest to rescue a fair princess."

"There are many such stories," Hannibal replies with a nod. "Men like to tell those kinds of grand tales. Did you enjoy it?"

"I suppose," Will says with a shrug. "I didn't care for the ending."

"Oh?"

"Well, when it comes down to it, why should the princess marry a man just because he's a great warrior? What of her choice? If I killed a thousand men, all it proves is that I'm good at killing."

Hannibal smiles. "It doesn't surprise me that you put such low value on a man's prowess in battle."

Will flushes. "I'm not saying he did not deserve a reward, but perhaps gold, or land, or livestock. Not a woman." He swallows, and adds quietly; "People shouldn't be bought and sold, rewarded and given away, like a trinket."

"I imagine you find my kingdom's traditions very distasteful, then," Hannibal says. "And your own position, as well."

Will presses his lips together, and finishes his half of the meal, handing the utensils back. He waits until Hannibal begins to eat before he replies. "You gave everyone a choice, in the end." Hannibal pauses, and meets his eyes. "As much as you were able to, in your position."

Hannibal considers that, and turns back to his meal without a word. Will swallows, petting over his throat, scratching at the beginnings of his facial hair as it begins to grow again. It's irritating, and his mouth is dry.

"They might have poisoned the wine," he says.

Hannibal looks at him, and then laughs, handing his cup over. "Let this be a lesson in time management, then," he says with an almost fond, playful smile. Will takes a drink, the sweetness of the wine helping to ease the dryness in his mouth. It's certainly much sweeter than the brew his people would make. He likes it. He takes another drink and hands it back, and wonders if this will be an inside joke of theirs – if Will might be able to tease 'They might have poisoned the wine', or the food, or whatever Hannibal touches that he wants to touch as well.

'Let me write for you,' he might say, 'they could have poisoned the ink'.

'Don't wear red, wear blue today,' he might say, 'they might have poisoned the dye in your new clothes'.

He laughs to himself, and runs a hand through his hair.

Hannibal finishes his meal in silence, and sits back with a sigh, washing it down with his wine. "I have some matters of correspondence to attend to," he says, and Will nods, standing and gathering his tray. "You will return the dishes and see to my room. By the time you are finished, it will be time to go to the morning council meeting. A meeting you are more than welcome to attend."

Will smiles, and gives a demure nod. "I think I will, my Lord. Thank you."

Hannibal turns away from him and goes to his desk, and Will hurries to return the tray to the kitchens, before he goes back to Hannibal's rooms. He strips his bed and fetches fresh linens, empties his chamber pot, and rinses it out. He coats the inside of the metal pot with fragrant oils, mindful of Hannibal's sensitive nose, and scrubs his hands clean so that his King doesn't smell it.

When he returns to the room to replace the chamber pot and straighten the bedclothes, the dirty ones having been taken to the laundry, Hannibal is finished. He has a sheaf of papers, bound and sealed, in his hand, and he gives it to Will. "On our way, go to the raven nook and have these dispatched for me." Will nods. "Then you may join us in the council chambers. Do you know where they are?"

Will shakes his head. "Forgive me, my Lord, my tour yesterday did not cover that."

Hannibal nods. "It's on the second floor of the library. You will see a black-cloaked female guard standing there, and a red crest on the door. You can't miss it." Will nods, and Hannibal smiles at him and bids him farewell. Will goes to the raven nook, which is near the stables, and hands over the letters to the aged man who tends to the birds. As he's leaving, he pauses, spying Alana with a bucket of water to take to the doctor. She stops midstride, eyes widening in recognition, and he waves to her in greeting.

She has been cleaned and redressed like Will, though her clothes are made of tan wool, and she wears a dark brown leather apron over her body that bears the King's crest over her stomach. He approaches her and she sets the bucket down. "You came with me," she says, and looks over his new clothes. She frowns. "What was your fate?"

"Personal servant to the King," Will replies. She blinks in surprise. "How fares the nurse's life?"

"In truth it is not much different than before, except I can be assured of a warm bed and food every night," she replies with a laugh. He smiles. "And you? What do you make of our new King?"

"All I can say so far is that he appears to be a just and reasonable man," Will replies honestly. "I have no complaint about his treatment of me. In truth, he has surprised me with his behavior." She hums, her eyes dark, contemplative. Will sighs, and nods to her bucket. "I won't keep you. I hope your new master is as fair and just as mine."

"That remains to be seen," she says idly, hoisting her bucket up to her elbow again.

Will frowns. "If you have any complaint, tell me," he murmurs. "I can speak to the King about it."

She laughs. "I doubt the King has any true desire to know the lives and woes of his servants," she says lightly, no contempt, but as though she is speaking an inarguable truth. Will wants to protest, but figures it may as well be a moot point. He and Alana do not know each other, she has no reason to trust his word, or the King's, by extension.

"Still," Will says. "If you have need of me, I'll be here."

She gives him a nod of thanks, and carries on. Will hurries back to the library and goes up the stairs, which are now illuminated by the morning light. There are two sets of them which rise in a circle on the edges of the tower, to find a second floor, and then another set leading to a third, a fourth, and so on.

He strides up the stairs and to the door Hannibal described, smiling in recognition when he sees Chiyoh standing guard in her black armor. She gives him a nod of greeting, and goes inside, Will following behind. The room is barren of carpets, the stone so cold it worms its way through Will's boots and makes him shiver. There is a single large window letting in sunlight, which illuminates a wooden table much like Hannibal's, except the legs are carved into the faces of lions and bears, snarling at the feet of whomever sits there.

Currently, there are four; Hannibal, at the head in a chair slightly larger and more grand than the rest. At his right is the golden-haired woman, Bedelia, who had taken on Freddie as her handmaiden. At his left sits the man Will recognizes as having taken on Alana as his apprentice – Chilton, the court doctor. On Bedelia's right is a man he does not recognize. He is ashen-haired and comparatively young, sits slouched like has had a little too much to drink, his eyes bright and narrowed like that of a rodent.

Will watches as Chiyoh takes the last space. He carefully circles to stand behind Hannibal, ready to fetch them wine or perform any other service asked of him. Hannibal is reading from a large scroll, and looks up as Chiyoh sits. He smiles at her and gives her a nod of greeting, and then turns, sensing Will's eyes on him.

"Will," he says, sounding pleaseantly surprised. "Good. Would you mind fetching us some wine?"

Will nods. There's a large jug by the window sitting on a little table. Everyone appears to have their own cups already, so he pours from the jug into a smaller pitcher which is easier to handle, and carries it over. He refills Hannibal's first, and then the lady Bedelia's. She gives him no acknowledgement, and neither does Chilton. The unnamed blond man, however, meets Will's eyes as he pours, gives him a wide, vicious-looking smile.

Will fills his cup halfway as he had the others, and freezes when the man grabs his forearm. "Now, boy," he purrs. "Don't be so miserly. Pour me a real serving."

Will swallows, and obeys silently, until the man lets him go. He catches Hannibal's gaze on the man, his brow lowered and his eyes dark, but Hannibal doesn't comment, and Will makes a note to be more generous with this man's cup in the future. He circles the table to Chiyoh, but she covers her glass and shakes her head.

He nods to her, and returns the pitcher to the table, content to stand there until he should make his rounds again.

Hannibal clears his throat, and sets his scroll down. "Now, the first order of business; I've received word from Commander Sutcliffe that our lines are holding strong on the western front, but the eastern bay is lacking, and falling prey to several skirmishes."

The man Will does not know the name of huffs, and drinks. "Flies biting at a dog's hide," he declares.

"Be that as it may, when the flies have weapons, and outnumber us, even your hounds mightier suffer under their continued attack, Mason," Hannibal replies. "And there is something to be said for morale. A clean dog is a happy dog, wouldn't you agree?"

Mason huffs, and drinks again.

"Chiyoh, can you spare another garrison to bring supplies to the eastern bay? I would like you to join them, and lend your insight, and report back."

"Of course, my Lord," Chiyoh replies with a nod. Will frowns to himself, biting his lower lip, and tries to peer at the table as best he can. There is a map laid out, red flags denoting what he assumes are Hannibal's troops, a scattering of green and black marking others. He sees that there is a cluster of flags on the eastern bay, as described, on the north side of the Pass, with little green arrow pieces biting them from the south. His frown deepens.

"Your servant seems very interested in our war efforts, my King," Bedelia says sharply. Will stiffens when her eyes land on him, and those of Chiyoh, Chilton, and Mason, narrowed in suspicion. He clears his throat, breathes out heavily, flexes his fingers behind his back. "He is one of the enemy, is that not correct? It might not be wise to let him see so much."

Will breathes in steadily, willing himself to remain calm. He cannot afford to be labeled as a spy, especially since that was not his intention. Hannibal is eyeing him curiously, and Will bows his head and murmurs; "Forgive me, my Lord. I was simply curious."

"Curious," Hannibal repeats.

Will nods.

"Well then, far be it from me to stymy curiosity. Come here." Will frowns, watching him warily, sees Hannibal's eyes tighten at the corners with impatience as he gestures for Will to come forward. "Come look, Will."

Will obeys, keeping his head low. He eyes the map, sees Hannibal's larger swath of red marking the capitol, clusters of red around the Pass, a border of it to the west where the plains begin, and, of course, the part he is worried about, in the east, where the river folk and Will's own people dwell.

He swallows, and leans forward, touching the map. "There is a network of caves, here," he says, drawing his finger from the tip of the Pass' main artery, closest to the capitol, up through the northern stretch of mountains. "It emerges right on the river," he adds, tapping his finger at the base of where the green arrows have been stacked. "During the summer, the water rises and makes this stretch impossible to cross, for it sits so low. But in the winter it is safe to use."

He meets Hannibal's eyes, and straightens. "If you send your men that way during the cold season, you will trap the flies between you, and crush them."

A stunned silence meets his words, and then it is broken by Mason slurping loudly at his drink. Will turns to fetch the wine pitcher, and refills his cup, making sure to be generous. He returns to the window, feeling Hannibal's gaze on him the entire time.

"Chiyoh," he finally says, "do you think you could find these caves?"

"Maybe," Chiyoh replies. "But the Pass is difficult to navigate, even now that we have taken it, and the people there know how to hide their cave entrances."

Hannibal hums. "Will?" Will turns, and nods to him. "Would you be willing to show Chiyoh these caves?"

Will swallows, and says, "If that is your command, my King."

Hannibal smiles, and Bedelia lets out a low, outraged sound. "You cannot be serious," she hisses. "My Lord, trusting a savage in his own territory is -."

"I'm sure one man would not be able to overpower our General and all of her soldiers," Hannibal interrupts with a cool smile, but his tone warns her from protesting. "And having a native helping us navigate the treacherous landscape would be advantageous." He waves away her next protest. "I will consider it. In the meantime, we will send word to Commander Sutcliffe that he should expect reinforcements and supplies within the next two weeks, even if we end up taking the traditional route."

Bedelia huffs, and glares openly at Will. Will resists the urge to smile at her, keeps his expression unmoving and stoic. If she wants to paint him as a spy, she will need to work much harder.

"That is the only pressing matter I am aware of," Hannibal continues. "Is there anything else we need to discuss at this meeting?"

Chilton stirs. "There have been reports of a sickness on the outermost towns," he says. "A plague-like affliction that seizes the lungs and chokes the victim to death on their own water. I am researching such a thing at the moment, but may require a venture to the outer banks to gather supplies. I would ask for means and a company of soldiers to guard me and my apprentice when we go."

Hannibal nods. "You have it."

"Thank you, my Lord."

"Is there anything else?" Hannibal asks, and the rest shake their heads. "Excellent. Have a good day, ladies and gentlemen. Leave me."

They stand and usher themselves out, though Mason comes to Will and takes the pitcher with him with another lecherous sneer. Will shudders, and does his best not to react. Soon, only he and Hannibal are left in the room, and Hannibal sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, and contemplates the war map. After a moment, he lifts his head, and meets Will's eyes.

"Come here, Will," he murmurs, and gestures for Will to sit. Will takes Chilton's seat. "You would do well to keep your curiosity in check when you attend these meetings."

Will nods.

"Were you speaking truthfully, when you mentioned these caves?" Hannibal asks, and Will nods again. He lets out a short breath. "Use your words, Will. I have no need for a puppet."

Will swallows, and looks to the map. "I was being truthful," he replies.

"I find it difficult to take you at your word, given your heritage."

"With all due respect, my Lord, have I given you any reason to doubt my word?" Will asks. Hannibal laughs, and shakes his head. "I like to think of myself as an honest man. I gain nothing by lying to you – if it turns out to be a trap, and you lose your men, I will lose my head as penance for it. But by helping you, perhaps I can earn your favor."

Hannibal tilts his head and lets out a curious sound. "Do you wish to earn my favor, Will?"

Will frowns. "Is that a trick question?"

"It is a question."

"Then yes, I do," Will replies. "I have no reason to think you are not just, and fair, and I do not think you will abuse me. But there is a difference between being a well-loved pet, and a friend. If you wish for us to become friendly, then it's a relationship that must be forged from both ends."

"You are very wise, especially for one your age," Hannibal murmurs, soft with thought. Will flushes, and drums his fingers against the table. "I simply find it…novel, I suppose. You were captured and taken from your homeland, your people slaughtered or sold into service. You are on the losing side of a war, and marked as Other by my own people. You owe us no loyalty."

"You're right," Will says, and meets Hannibal's eyes. "I owe you nothing, which means I am left with the option to give my loyalty freely or retain it for myself."

Hannibal's face grows slack with surprise. He smiles in that way that does not move his mouth, but makes his eyes shine. "I am glad that the gods chose to move the stars in such a way that we were able to meet, Will," he murmurs, and Will doesn't know what to say to that, so he remains silent. Hannibal stands, and Will rises with him. "Now, another matter that has been on my mind – the man you waved to when he chose the fighting pits. Were you friends?"

"In as much as dogs penned in together become friends," Will replies. "I know his name, and he was kind to me, yes."

"If you would like, you have my leave to go visit the pits today," Hannibal tells him. Will nods, pressing his lips together. "I will expect you back in time for the evening meal, but I have no further use for you until then."

"Thank you, my Lord," Will murmurs, and bows his head.

Hannibal smiles, and touches Will's shoulder as he passes. Will follows Hannibal out of the room, to see Chiyoh still standing guard. She seals the room behind them with a key attached to her belt, and walks with Hannibal down the steps and out of the library. Will eyes the sun, seeing that it is shining brightly, and tastes the heat in the air – the last remnants of autumn before it succumbs to winter. He will go to the pits and greet whomever he can, and then perhaps spend his afternoon back in this room, reading more.

Decided, he goes to the rooms where the servants sleep, to his own bed which is tucked away in a back corner amidst many. There is no one here, for they are all going about their duties, but in a little chest at the base of the bed is a thick reddened cloak, marking him in service to the King. He dons it to protect him from any wind or bad weather, and leaves through the back entrances, through the courtyard, and out onto the main streets.

It isn't difficult to find the fighting pits. If not for the grand, looming structure of the arena, the stench of sweat, of blood, of the particular hay-scent of animals is enough for him to find it. Will walks to the main entrance, finding it curiously unguarded, and onto a stretch of barren ground in which groups of men are lined up, practicing their fighting stance. Will spies Jack, Francis, Randall, and many of the other natives he came with easily, and smiles to himself as he watches them work against staffs of wood, practicing their jabs, twists, and swings of their wooden swords.

A man approaches him, clad in dark leather armor and holding a mean-looking curved blade, a whip in his other hand. "Who are you?" he asks, gruff but not entirely impolite.

Will nods to him. "I was sent here by the King," he murmurs. "He bade me look at the newest fighters and gauge their behavior."

The man eyes him, clearly suspicious, but unable to argue with Will for the fact that he is wearing the King's colors, and bears his crest. He turns and calls a halt to the practice. "Go to your meals!" he yells.

Will points to Randall, Francis, and Jack, who are at the front of their group. "I would like to speak to those men," he says.

"Suit yourself," the man replies, and cracks his whip. "You there!" he yells, gathering their attention. Randall's eyes widen with recognition, and he smiles at Will. "Come here." He turns back to Will. "You have five minutes, and may not leave the training grounds."

Will nods in thanks, and waits until the three approach. Jack grins at him and clasps their forearms together. "Look, it's the man who has pleased a thousand women!" he says in greeting. Will laughs, and Randall thumbs at his cloak.

"This is King's garb," he says, soft with awe.

Will nods. "The King has indentured me to his service," Will tells them. "I fetch his meals and clean his rooms." He shrugs. "Certainly not as glorious as fighting."

"Yet better suited to your nature, I should think," Francis says. He does not sound derisive; more impressed, that Will managed to get so close to the King so quickly. "And the women in the castle?"

"Well-kept, as far as I know," Will replies, knowing he is speaking of Alana, Freddie, and Beverly. "If that changes I will be much less friendly, I'm sure."

Francis laughs. "And what do you make of the King?" he asks.

"A fair man, I should think. Certainly no tyrant." Will shakes his head. "I did not come here to gossip, merely to make sure your fate was as kind as mine. I'm glad you are all together."

"Yes," Jack says, "and I am glad to hear the rumors are true."

"Oh?"

"It's written in the law," Randall says. "One hundred victories frees the man who earns them. It may take many years – first we must train and pass our test to become gladiators, and then serve the master who buys us before we may start counting our victories, but yes; once we reach one hundred, we are freed men."

"A daunting task," Will murmurs, "but one I know you will complete."

"It is a pity you ended up serving the King," Francis says. "No noblewoman to please one hundred times."

"I'm not so sure," Jack replies, and jabs Will's shoulder teasingly, so large he almost knocks Will off his feet. "Two men together is just a different kind of sword-fighting, no?"

Will laughs, blushing. "I doubt servicing the King one hundred times will earn freedom for me," he says, his cheeks turning a very dark red. Unbidden, the memory of Hannibal's bared back, his strong shoulders and smooth skin, flashes across his mind, and he clears his throat, pressing his lips together. "Even if that were so, I have no law on my side."

"I hear these words, but no denial in them," Randall says curiously. His head tilts. "I have heard the King has no wife, has fathered no children. Perhaps he prefers the company of men."

"I'm not sure it's treason to speak as you do," Francis warns, "but I do not deny I think the same."

Will swallows. "Well," he says, forcibly light, "I bid you farewell, my friends and brothers, and all the luck in the world. Perhaps I will be there for your hundredth fight."

"And for your hundredth 'fight', we might attend your Queenhood," Jack laughs, and Will blushes again. He claps a meaty hand on Will's shoulder, sending him stumbling, as Francis and Randall clasp his forearm in a farewell each. "Best of luck to you, brother."

Will nods, and steps away from them as the man yells at them to have their meal before their training continues. He leaves the training grounds in a hurry, feeling flustered for a reason he cannot quite name. Yes, the King is handsome, and kind, and when he looks at Will, Will feels it deeply, but it is madness to consider their friendship as anything more than what it is; master and servant.

If Hannibal was so inclined to take a consort, he would have one already. And Will should not attempt to muddy the waters any further; he is the enemy, under scrutiny and suspicion. If the lady Bedelia finds out she will surely attempt to turn Hannibal against Will. And that says nothing to the unknown of whether Hannibal even finds Will attractive and would be pleased to share his bed with him.

Still, there are worse ways to grow the King's affection for him. Will cannot deny he finds Hannibal attractive, and interesting; his mind and his manner of speaking is gentle, his laws sound and just, his company pleasing. He cannot bring himself to decide on how the King would behave as a lover; if he would be as brutal as his reputation on the battlefield, if he would be unbearably sweet.

He swallows, and feels blind as he walks back to the castle, his mind ablaze. Thoughts of it haunt him as he goes to the library and picks another book at random, settling down to read. It is a collection of poems from a nation Will has never heard of. There is a section specifically on the subject of love, and passion, with words so powerful and moving that Will feels himself blush.

He startles when he hears the bell for the evening meal, and rushes from the library after returning the book to the shelf. One hundred nights. No longer than a season. Will could be a freed man by the spring, if he manages to seduce and please the King often enough.

He does not think, if Hannibal agrees, and the hundredth night comes and goes, Hannibal would force Will to continue serving him if Will claimed his hundredth fight. He can find another servant. Another bedmate too, if it so pleases him. Will can rely on Hannibal's justice and fairness to see the logic behind his request.

He will not, of course, suggest it outright. It must be honest. First, he must find out if it's even possible, if Hannibal would deign to share his bed and body with Will. Then, the rest will come.

He knocks on Hannibal's door and enters, frowning when he finds the room empty. Unsure of what to do, he lights a fire and sets the tray atop the stack so that it remains warm, and does his best to straighten and clean the King's room. Still, Hannibal does not come, and so Will leaves, huffing a breath and shaking his head at his own disappointment. He should not be disappointed that Hannibal was not there – he is a King, and certainly busy.

He goes to the servants' quarters and divests himself of his cloak, takes his evening meal with Franklyn and Freddie, and leaves soon after, back to the library.

The hour is very late and Will has had to fetch his lantern by the time he hears the doors open. He frowns, peering into the darkness, wondering who might be up at this hour. His eyes widen and he blinks in surprise when he sees the King approaching, and hurriedly pushes himself to his feet. Hannibal smiles at him, and sets his lantern down by Will's. When he sits, Will does as well, nervously touching his fingers to the edge of the pages of his open book.

"I figured I might find you here," Hannibal says warmly. He nods to the book. "What has captured your interest tonight?"

Will swallows, and wets his lips. "It's a collection of poems," he replies. "I'm not sure how to pronounce the man's name." He turns it, and shows it to Hannibal. Hannibal's gaze goes low-lidded and he gives a hum of recognition.

"A frequent apparition in my studies as a boy," he says with another smile. "How are you liking his work?"

"It's…" Will hesitates. "Evocative."

"Oh?"

"Yes. The way he describes food, or a vision he has seen. I feel as though I am standing next to him, eating what he has eaten, looking upon what he has looked upon…." He swallows, and hesitates again, before adding; "Touched who he has touched."

"He is certainly talented," Hannibal concedes. "Have you reached the series of poems he wrote on his wife?" Will shakes his head, and Hannibal smiles. "It is a rare thing, to love someone like that."

"How do you mean?" Will asks, pushing the book to one side and closing it carefully.

"Not once does he describe what she looks like," Hannibal tells him. "He speaks of her mind, her sharp tongue, her honed wit. He speaks of how she moves, and tastes, and the nature of her hair, and what she feels like in their marriage bed. Yet not once do you learn the color of her eyes, or her hair, or her skin, or how she likes to dress." He looks away, head tilted, eyes dark with contemplation. "She could have been any woman, and yet when I read them, I felt the sense that she was an impossible woman. He loves her so dearly that she is irreplaceable, and none of that love comes from what she looks like. There is…something admirable, in that."

Will's fingers curl, a sharp ache felt in his chest from the tone of Hannibal's voice. Longing, for certain. Lonely. Wistful. "Have you ever loved someone like that?"

"No," Hannibal replies, and meets Will's gaze. "Have you?"

Will shakes his head. "I daresay I have never loved at all, if that is love."

Hannibal smiles. "None of those women whom you did not make mothers?"

Will huffs a laugh, and rubs his hand over the nape of his neck. "No. Nor any of the men I laid with. But to be fair, none of them loved me, either. We sated physical needs, passing fancies, and shared fleeting affection." He meets Hannibal's eyes again. "No expectations."

Hannibal tilts his head, considering that. "I don't think I know what that's like," he confesses. "Everyone seems to expect something of me. Perhaps that is fair, for I am unique in my power to give it. But I can't remember a time when there was someone who simply…"

He cuts himself off, and huffs, shaking his head. "Forgive me, Will, the dark hours make me a melancholy old man. I promise I did not come to lay my sorrows at your feet." Will swallows, and bites down harshly on his tongue so he does not beg Hannibal to continue. Yet he wants to, strangely – he wants to hear. "How was your foray to the fighting pits? How are your friends?"

"Well," Will replies. "They seem happy for their lot. I thank you for giving them the option."

"An option you did not choose," Hannibal says. "You could have lied and said you fought with them – no one would have protested your involvement. And yet you, singularly, chose to confess you had no warrior spirit within you."

"As you said," Will murmurs; "My nature is to nurture and protect. Warriors are necessary, I will not deny that, but without people like me they are just loud men with big swords who must reap because they do not know how to sow."

To his surprise, Hannibal laughs. "Were you a philosopher, in your old life?" he says, and his smile is soft, affectionate, playful. It easily sheds years off his face when he smiles like that. Will shakes his head, grinning back.

Hannibal stands, and Will rises as well, returning his book and they fetch their lanterns, leaving the library. "When fishing is how one spends most of his days, one has many hours to contemplate the nature of life," he says, when they pause at the cross section that marks the different directions for Hannibal's quarters, and Will's rooms. "The trick is not to think too loudly, or you'll scare the fish."

Hannibal hums, and gives a slow, considering nod. "You must be careful not to think too loudly in a castle, either," he says. No longer playful; soft, almost like a warning. "The walls listen."

Will frowns, but Hannibal says nothing more, and turns away. "You will be able to gather the dinner tray when breakfast is finished tomorrow morning. Be sure to leave enough time for your own bath and breakfast."

"Yes, my Lord," Will calls in reply, and hurries to his own rooms. The rest of the servants are dead to the world, lost in slumber, and Will navigates as quietly as he can, dousing his lantern and slipping into his bed. It's an uncomfortable cot, though certainly softer than cave floors and leaf piles. Still, he finds himself lifting it to its side and lying down on the floor beneath, wrapped in blankets and his cloak, and sleeps far better than he would have on the cot.


	3. Chapter 3

It is much easier to be on time when the morning bell rings and the servants scurry to their tasks. Will bathes with four other men in a basin like the one he first used on his first day, shaves his face again and dresses quickly, forgoing the soaps the other servants use. He eats his own breakfast quickly and then gathers Hannibal's, and is pleased to be ready and at his door just a minute past sunrise.

He knocks and then enters, setting the tray down. He gathers the dinner tray and goes back to the kitchens to relinquish it, and returns to Hannibal's rooms to receive any tasks specific to the morning. As he arrives, he catches sight of Hannibal dressing again, and is proud to say he does not stumble or freeze as he did the morning prior. Still, his eyes linger on Hannibal's body; his legs, thick with muscle from years of fighting and riding on horseback, clung to by soft cloth leggings as he pulls them on over his undergarments. His tunic, too, hugs his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and Will fights the urge to tell him that his robes are so unflattering above them. Yes, they are made of fine material and colored richly, but they do not match the visage of a warrior King. Rather, Will thinks they are better suited to fat, pompous old men with a tyrannical nature.

Hannibal turns to regard him, and Will flushes, looking down. Hannibal approaches him and Will stiffens, unconsciously lowering his lashes and showing his neck when Hannibal pauses a mere pace from him, and breathes in again.

"Much better," he praises quietly, and Will sucks in a breath as he feels Hannibal's fingers ghost over his jaw. "If you prefer to regrow your facial hair again, it is not forbidden," he says, and lets Will go, sitting down at his breakfast.

Will hums, and pets absently over his neck. "I wore a beard to protect my face from the wind in the Pass and the cold rock of the caves," he explains. "I have no need for that, now."

Hannibal does not answer, merely begins eating. It is strange, not to be invited to sit, and to eat first, even though he has only done it twice. He shifts his weight anxiously, worried that he might have offended Hannibal or displeased him in some way.

Though he tries not to give any outward sign, Hannibal must sense his discomfort, for he sighs, and sits back in his chair. "Will," he says, his eyes on his food, and Will looks at him. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but I would appreciate if it you kept our conversations secret. Not just the matters I task you with, but the more private ones as well."

Will frowns. "Of course, my Lord," he replies. "I consider everything we tell each other a secret unless told otherwise."

Hannibal's lips purse. "Even with your kinsmen?" he asks. Will blinks at him, too shocked to reply. "Chilton told me you and his apprentice have been seen speaking to each other. I am a trusting man, Will, but it would be foolish of me not to ask what you spoke about."

"I merely asked if she was being treated well," Will murmurs. "And I told her if her master ever raised a hand to her, that she tell me, and I would tell you." He breathes in, and forges on when Hannibal meets his eyes; "She didn't believe that you would care. I believe you would. But I ran out of time to convince her, and simply wished her well, and we parted ways." Hannibal's expression does not change, and Will shakes his head. "I swear, my Lord, that was the entirety of it."

Hannibal considers him for another long moment, before he nods. "I believe you," he says, and Will's shoulders go slack with relief. "You must think me very petty, or very suspicious, to question you so much."

"No," Will replies honestly, and shakes his head again. "It is the duty and role of your position to be aware of your Kingdom, and all those within it. Only a tyrant would not care what the servants think of him."

"Boldly spoken."

"And yet you do not disagree."

Hannibal pauses, and laughs. "No, I suppose I don't," he says warmly. Surprised at his own admittance. He continues to eat. "Tell me, now; what do you think of my council members?"

Will blinks, taken aback at the question. He swallows and shifts his weight again. "Do you want my honest opinion?"

"Of course," Hannibal replies.

"I have met Chiyoh before," Will murmurs. "When I was wandering at night. I can tell that she loves you, and is protective of you. I do not doubt her loyalty to the crown for a second." Hannibal nods, like this doesn't surprise him. "Lord Mason has an abrasive nature, but I sense he is ultimately harmless. Too small-minded and too happy with his lot to cause trouble beyond the occasional barb."

Hannibal laughs. "He is the beast master for the castle," he says. "He tends to the hounds, and trains them for hunts. I do not disagree."

"…The doctor," Will continues. "I will confess, my Lord, I do not like him, though I could not tell you why. He and I have never spoken, and I have heard nothing from his apprentice that suggests he is an unkind or devious man, but I do not trust him."

Hannibal nods. "And the lady Bedelia?" he presses. "She claimed you were a spy."

"She is not out of place to think so," Will replies. "I am a foreigner, an enemy in her eyes. And I did pay frightful attention to your maps." He smiles, and Hannibal answers him in kind. "I think she is afraid."

"Oh?"

Will nods. "When you marry and father children, her place on the council and in the castle will be weaker," he says. "I think she fears your affection for her may one day turn completely; that you will tire of her and cast her aside in favor of a bride, or some other thing that strikes your fancy."

Hannibal meets his eyes, his brows lowered. Not angry, no, but troubled at Will's words. He makes no verbal reply, but lowers and releases his knife and fork, wiping his mouth on a napkin, and covers the remnants of his meal with the metal cover.

He sits back, and rests his elbow on the arm of his chair, supporting his jaw with his curled fingers. "Now imagine yourself on my council, Will," he says, and Will looks at him in shock. "Watch your own behavior, and your words, and tell me what you would make of yourself if you had a place there."

He bows his head, shifts his weight, and says quietly; "He is a man eager and willing to serve." Hannibal hums. "A man who holds no expectations."

Hannibal's eyes flash, and Will sucks in a breath. It is strange – language was never something he contemplated too deeply, and yet how can a single word start to mean so much?

"It is a rare man who claims that nature," Hannibal says quietly.

"It's the truth," Will replies. "I hold no hatred for you, nor do you inspire fear in me. It is not expectation I have for you, but a desire to serve, and be your friend, simply because I believe you are a man worth being friends with. A man worth serving."

Hannibal's eyes are dark, his stare so heavy, it feels as though Will has swallowed stone. Yet with it comes a heat he has not often felt; a desire to move closer, to touch the finery of Hannibal's robes and test the strength of his flesh beneath them. He curls his fingers behind his back, shifts his weight restlessly, and puts his eyes on Hannibal's feet.

"You said I had a nurturing spirit," he continues. "It is true. I want to serve you, my Lord, in whatever way pleases you most. Bid me take up arms and fight for you, and I will. Command I fetch your clothing or your bathwater or ready your horse, and I will do so without question."

Hannibal is silent, stoic, yet Will feels his gaze like a wildcat, hidden in its cave, waiting for the right moment to lunge.

He forges on; "You have no wife. It is not my place to question why. You cannot take a woman to your bed and risk siring an illegitimate heir." The air grows thick, warm and wet on Will's tongue. He swallows. "There is no risk of that, with me. If you wish to extend our friendship to that, as well, then I am your humble and obedient servant."

"You would give me your body," Hannibal says.

"Yes, my Lord," Will breathes. "Gladly."

He almost expects Hannibal to rise, right then, to take him and throw him onto the table and mount him immediately. Certainly, he sees a darkness in Hannibal's eyes that must be contemplating the same thing. Yet in reality, Hannibal is unmoving, except for a fidgeting tap of his finger against his cheek. Finally, he says; "You have given me much to think about, Will." Will breathes out, swallowing harshly, trying to move the heated stone from his belly to somewhere less urgent. "I have no further need of you at the moment. I will see you for lunch."

Will nods, and approaches, taking the tray with both hands. "Have a good morning, my Lord," he says, and smiles, before he leaves. It will be good not to make Hannibal see his disappointment, nor his fervor until the time comes; yes, Will's blush and his nervousness are not entirely fake, but he must not come across as some young, foolish thing simply looking to fling himself into a King's bed. He must navigate this carefully if he is to succeed.

Still, he feels Hannibal's eyes burning into his back as he leaves, and it warms him for the rest of his journey to the library. He takes out his poetry book from the night before and skips ahead, to the collection of poems the man wrote on his wife, and sits down to read.

By the time the noon bell chimes, Will is positively fraught with an emotion he cannot name. The ink has blurred together in his vision, words leaping out at him from the page. By the gods, how can a man be so in love? Will feels as though he is hearing this man speak to him in real life, like they are both looking upon the object of his affection, and though Will does not know what she looks like, he _feels_ her, like a physical touch on his face.

"See?" the man whispers to him. "See how the dewdrops tremble beneath her touch. How the sun bursts fervently through the trees above, desperate to catch a sight of her. I know that I am lucky, for I can see her when the sun cannot. I drink honey and maple from her mouth, and smell the forest in her hair. I can feel the warm heat of her and it rivals the brightest star. Do you see?"

And Will does. He thinks he does, at least. The noon bell chimes its last and he hurries from the library, taking Hannibal's lunch up to him. His heart is racing in his chest, a heat in his belly that is not heavy and leaden as it was before, but alive with the churn of blood.

He knocks and enters, finding Hannibal sitting at his desk. He places Hannibal's tray on his table and stands by the fireplace to await any further instruction, or to be dismissed by his King. But Hannibal does not look his way, makes no motion to acknowledge him. Will curls his fingers, tugging at his clothes, feels the heat, the frantic excitement burbling up in him.

"I read the poems about the wife," he says, when it feels like he cannot be silent a moment longer.

Hannibal pauses for only a moment, and then dips his quill in his inkwell and continues to write. "What did you make of them?"

"Only that I know now I have never been in love."

Hannibal hums, but still, does not turn.

Will swallows, and forces himself to remain silent while Hannibal works. Finally, he appears to be finished, and dusts some powder over the ink so that it dries. He stands, shrugging his robes back into place, and pauses when he meets Will's eyes. His head tilts curiously. "Did you run up here?" he asks.

Will nods.

"Why?"

"Because I -." He stops, wetting his lips, and frowns down at his feet. Why indeed? He certainly had enough time to fetch Hannibal's food and bring it up, and he's sure his lateness wouldn't have been noticed had he tarried. "Because it seemed reasonable at the time," he finally answers, because he can give no other answer.

Hannibal's lip twitches at the corners, and he gestures to the food. "Sit and take the first bite," he commands, and Will obeys with a ducked head, as Hannibal goes to his personal room. Will pulls the tray to his seat and uncovers it, revealing a large knot of bread and a venison steak, crusted with red and black along the edge of it. He slices off a bite and tears a chunk of bread, eating both, and pushes it back to Hannibal's place as he returns. "No poison, I take it?"

"Unless it's slow-acting," Will says, the joke falling flat.

Hannibal smiles, and begins to eat in silence. Will breathes out, feeling jittery and restless, and works his fingers against each other in his lap. "I've made you unhappy with me."

"Unhappy? No, Will," Hannibal says. "Just…thoughtful."

"Because of what I mentioned this morning."

"Because of several things you mentioned this morning."

Will swallows.

"You have posed a solution to something I did not consider to be a problem," Hannibal continues. "It makes me think there are other things that might need to be addressed that I did not consider a problem. And so I have been thinking on them."

Will nods, some of the tension removed from his shoulders. Of course; Will would be a fool to think a King's concerns began and ended with him. He forces his fingers to stop their fidgeting, and settles, mimicking Hannibal's posture.

"I didn't intend for you to think of it as a problem," he finally says, when the silence grows from tense to somewhat comfortable again. Hannibal hums in question. "Merely…. Forgive me. I can only speak to what I know, and what I have seen. You seem concerned with the manner in which your courtiers treat their servants. I simply wanted to state, plainly, that if you asked that of me, I would consent to it."

"Is a whore who volunteers less of a whore, in your mind?"

Will flinches at the word, at Hannibal's cold tone. He looks down at his hands. "Please, my Lord, forgive me," he murmurs, and wonders how many times he has asked for forgiveness now. He should learn not to speak so freely; it is not his place, anymore. "I simply meant that I would view it as a gesture of friendship – some other duty I can take up for you."

Hannibal lets out a short, aggravated sound, and Will abruptly realizes his misstep. Of _course_. Unbidden, a laugh spills form his throat, and Hannibal pauses, his irritation melting to surprise when Will laughs. He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head.

"Why do you laugh?"

"My Lord, surely you must understand I can't just -." Will laughs again. "I've offended you by framing it as a matter of service. It was not my intention; I see, now, why you are so angry with me. But you are a _King_, my Lord." Hannibal frowns. "I could not simply assume you would be pleased if I dropped to my knees, or you found me naked and willing in your bed. Can you imagine?"

Hannibal's lips twitch in a small smile.

"I state my openness to it simply because, if we were two men who met at a tavern, or if you were a traveler wishing to warm yourself at one of my people's fire, and showed interest in me, I would gladly share it with you," Will finishes, and smiles at Hannibal. That, he can admit, is the truth.

Hannibal's eyes are dark, and rake over Will's face, down to his hidden hands, and back up. He hums, and takes another bite, ripping a chunk of bread from the roll and soaking it in the juice coming from the steak, before he eats it.

He swallows, and says; "No expectations?"

Will shakes his head. "None, my Lord. Only the hope that I can please you. And if I cannot, if you are unsatisfied with any manner of my performance or companionship, then I will happily return only to the role of your food-fetcher and bedmaker." He pauses, and adds, "And your friend, if you're willing."

Hannibal lifts his chin, and nods. "That," he says slowly, "sounds like a much more attractive arrangement." Will smiles as Hannibal finishes with his meal, covers the tray, and stands. Will stands with him, and though, again, he half-expects Hannibal to command him to strip, to bring him to his bed and have his way with Will, Hannibal returns to his desk with another smile. "This afternoon, I need you to fetch reports from the kennels, the apothecary, and the farrier, as well as any correspondence waiting for me from the ravens. The masters there should have them ready for you. Bring them to me and leave them on my desk if I am not here to receive them, and then the rest of the day is yours until the evening meal."

"Yes, my Lord," Will murmurs, taking his tray in hand. He pauses, spying that Hannibal's wine pitcher is almost empty. "Shall I bring more wine to you as well?"

Hannibal blinks, and looks at his cup. "Yes, Will. Thank you."

Will smiles to himself, and takes the tray away. He returns it to the kitchens and brings up more wine for Hannibal, replacing his empty pitcher with a fresh one. "I tasted it first," he murmurs playfully. "No poison."

Hannibal laughs, and gives him a few letters to bring to the ravens. He thinks it is the first time he's heard Hannibal laugh like that, and it warms him, to know he was the one who caused it.

Will runs his errands as he was bid, and as he returns to the servants' quarters to gather his cloak, for he has a venture back into the city in mind, he pauses when he sees a small purse inside his chest. He bends down to retrieve it, and finds that it has been filled with coins. He frowns.

"Franklyn," he calls, catching the other man's attention. He hefts his purse. "What is this?"

"Your allowance, Will," Franklyn replies with a laugh. "You will receive a small sum weekly."

Will frowns, and looks back down. He closes the chest and scatters the coins across it, gesturing for Franklyn to come over. "Will you help me? My people didn't use money like this."

Franklyn nods, and blows out a breath when he sees the amount. "The King is generous," he murmurs, and while there is no touch of jealousy or envy in his voice, Will immediately resolves to be less open about his means, for he senses the other servants may be more inclined to rob him if they find out how much he makes.

"So, these," Franklyn says, pointing to a small, flat copper piece. "Are worth ten pennies. A single one might buy you some grain from the markets, or small items. Since you can read I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out." Will huffs, smiling. "These ones," Franklyn continues, pointing to another piece, this one made of silver and shaped vaguely like a square. "Are worth fifty. So five of the copper ones. And the gold pieces here are worth one hundred."

Will hums, and picks up a gold piece. One hundred. It seems like this number is making itself quite prominent in his life. He thinks of equating this single piece of gold to one hundred victories in the ring for Jack, or Randall, or Francis. Thinks of one hundred nights in Hannibal's bed, and laughs again. Such a small piece of metal, to mean so much.

He counts, and finds that between his pieces, Hannibal has given him five hundred in total. Given that Franklyn has told him, he believes what he said, that this is a generous allowance. And weekly, too.

"How much do you make a week, may I ask?" he murmurs, sliding the coins back into the little pouch.

Franklyn smiles. "When I started I only made five pennies a week. Now I am given just short of three hundred," he replies. Will nods to himself; a starting wage of five hundred is certainly lavish, but he's glad he doesn't make _so _much more than Franklyn. He stands and tucks the pouch into the waist of his trousers so it's not hanging obviously, and will not be touched without him feeling it.

"I have one more question," he says, and Franklyn nods, standing in a rush. Will blinks at him, and stifles a laugh. Franklyn seems like a little puppy, wide-eyed and bouncing at his heel. "I know the King has special soaps brought to the palace, but if I wanted to commission a particular one for him, where would I go?"

"Oh! To the Saboni house," Franklyn tells him. "I was going to the market myself just now, if you'd like the company."

"Thank you," Will says with a smile. He bends down and gathers his cloak, shoulders it, and Franklyn dons a coat that goes down to his knees. It is an off-white, making him as a generic servant, with embroidery around the cuffs and the bottom hem. And, of course, the King's crest sewn into the back.

They leave together, through the servants' entrance and around the courtyard, and out into the main thoroughfare that leads to the markets. Immediately the scents of spices, roasting meat, fresh bread and sweet fruits encompasses Will. He eyes stalls with trinkets boasted from far-off lands, a stall with various knives and hunting gear, and pauses as he sees a merchant with baskets of live bait and tackle, for fishing.

He approaches the stall, Franklyn at his heel. The woman behind the stall greets him with a smile, standing and approaching him. "Good afternoon," she greets, and gestures to her wares. "Can I help you with anything?"

"I'm just looking for now, thank you," Will replies. She blinks at his accent, and gives him a nod, subsiding while he peruses the buckets and baskets of live bait. Worms, in one, small fish in a water-tight basin in another. Smaller bugs in a sealed container. "What kind of fish can be caught in these parts?"

"There's a large freshwater lake behind that mountain," he says, pointing to the little cluster of them, away from the Pass, behind the castle. "It's a day's ride, and freezes over during the winter, but one can find all manner of creatures in it."

Will hums. He smiles at her, and gives her a nod. "Thank you," he says, and turns away. A day's ride is too far for him to go to, given his new duties, but perhaps once he is free, he can venture that way and make himself at home. It will all depend on the tide of the war if he is ever welcomed back in his homeland, and he doubts he will make friends of the river folk if they learn he has aided the King in their conquest.

Franklyn falls into step behind him again, and gestures for him to venture left, down an alley. "The Saboni house is at the end," he says, pointing to a little hut that is marked by a small awning, a thick orange band of cloth wrapped above the entrance to shield it from the sun. There is a man sitting outside it, smoking from a tall pipe with a hose sticking out, filling the air with smoke. "I need to see to some of my own errands. Shall we meet back here in an hour?"

Will nods, and leaves Franklyn to his own devices, striding down the alley. He nods to the man in greeting and receives a toothy smile in answer. "Well met, friend," he says, and bows his head to Will. "Do you smoke?"

"I've never tried," Will murmurs. "Are you the soap maker?"

"One of many," the man replies, and holds out his hand. "The name's Tobias."

"Well-met," Will says, and shakes his head. "I'm Will."

"How may I help you, Will?"

"I wish to commission a special fragrance. I may not have enough on me, for now, so I'll need to know price, and timeline, if you're able to give it."

Tobias blinks at him, and wraps his hose, pushing the coals from the top of his pipe off to the ground in a splattering of ash. He dumps some wine over the hot embers, making them sizzle, and stands, dusting off his hands. He leads the way inside. "What manner of fragrance?"

"If possible, something close to my own," Will replies. Tobias eyes him curiously, and Will smiles. "I've met a woman who says she enjoys my scent, and would like to give her something to remember me by." The lie comes easily to him – lying often has – and Tobias laughs, clapping his hands together.

"I've not met a romantic in years!" he declares, and gestures for Will to come deeper into the house. The walls are lined with dried herbs, fragrant fresh plants, and jars of dried fat into which scents can be mixed. "Are you interested in a soap, or perhaps some kind of cologne?"

Will hums, and considers the question. "Something for the air, perhaps," he says. "Or fabric. I'd like to leave my scent upon her pillow."

Tobias grins, and nods. "Step closer, then, let me smell you." Will laughs, and obeys, letting the man cup the air by his head and wave it towards him, breathing in deeply. He gives a considering hum. "Mint, for certain. Lemongrass…. There is something sweet about you. Cloves, yes. Perhaps cinnamon. Molly!"

Will blinks at the name, eyes widening as, indeed, Molly comes from behind a thick-hanging curtain. She blinks at Will in shock, and smiles warmly at him, coming forward. She gives him a respectful nod, which Will returns. "What do you smell on this man?"

Molly laughs, her cheeks turning pink. "Will has the scent of blackberries," she says with a smile.

Tobias looks to her. "You know him?"

"He was brought in with the same group I was," Molly replies with a nod.

"So recently, to have already found a woman to woo," Tobias murmurs, sounding impressed. He grins. "Yes, blackberries, though – you have a sharp nose, my girl." He nods to himself and turns back to Will. "You are in luck, friend; I have everything I need here to make your concoction. It can be ready for you tomorrow."

Will smiles, pleased and surprised, and nods. "I thank you for that. How much will it cost? I may have to delay the start of it to make sure I have enough."

"Three-hundred-fifty will secure you a small vial," Tobias says, and gestures to a row of small bottles of fragrance, all stoppered and neatly wrapped. It will surely hold more than enough for Will's plan. He hums, and gestures to a set of larger bottles.

"And these?"

"Those will run you six hundred."

Will sighs. "Very well. I will take a small bottle, then, for now," he says, and fishes out his purse, handing over the amount. Tobias takes it with a smile, and Will gives him and Molly another nod. "Though I ask, if your stores allow, you will make more, and I will buy more from you when I have the funds. I will see you tomorrow."

"Have a good day, my friend!" Tobias says, and waves him out. Molly follows, and Will pauses by the entrance when she takes his arm.

"What happened to you, that you come in with so much frivolous money?" she demands.

"I serve the King," he replies. "And you? You seem comfortable here. Did Tobias purchase your son, as well?"

"Yes," Molly says, and smiles. "A fortunate turn, I'm sure, though of course it's too soon to tell if I will be content here. Still, it is better than the mines, even if all these smells hurt my head on occasion."

Will laughs. "I am glad you found a peaceful place," he says. "May your term of service pass quickly."

"And yours," Molly says. "How long will you serve the King?"

"I do not know," Will replies. If his plan is to work, he might be freed come next season. If it doesn't, then only the gods can tell. "I think it will be for life." Certainly, a lifetime will have passed; he might emerge a new man, when all is said and done.

"Whatever the term, I pray it be swift and comfortable," Molly says with a kind smile. "Best of luck to you."

Will nods, and leaves. He still has some time before he is due to meet Franklyn, so he entertains himself idly wandering around the market stalls, until he comes upon a book seller. His eye is caught by a thick tome, bound with red leather. He goes to it and touches the soft cover, and opens it to the middle, blinking in surprise as he catches Hannibal's name.

"May I help you?" the stall master asks, a man of large bearing that reminds him of Jack. Will gestures to the book and the man smiles. "It is the tale of our King's conquests throughout the land, his great deeds in battle and every one of his speeches made to the people."

Will is sure such a tome exists in the library, but the thought of having his own copy is an enticing one. "How much are you asking for it?"

The man raises a brow, and looks him up and down. "Two hundred," he says.

Will huffs. "I only have one-fifty on me," he replies with an arched brow, and closes the book. "Will you part with it for that?"

The man sighs, but nods, and wraps the tome in paper, tying it with a string while Will gives him the rest of his money. Foolish, perhaps, to part with his funds so quickly after receiving them, but Will need not worry about food or bedding for a night, and has no other expenses. He tucks the tome under his arm and parts from the man with a word of thanks, and spies Franklyn among the crowd.

"Will, there you are!" Franklyn says. He has a number of his own packages, tied together and slung over his shoulder. "Are you finished with your errands?"

"And then some," Will replies. "Shall we?"

He nods, and they walk together back to the castle. Will divests himself of his cloak and empty purse, and takes the book to the library, unwrapping it so he can read. There are still several hours between the evening meal and now, so he has plenty of time.

He begins at the beginning, as many often do. The record starts with a brief summary of the King before Hannibal, a tyrannical man who would often round up his people in droves and slaughter them, or send them to the mines on his whim. Capital punishment, it was called. His brow furrows and his lips curl in distaste.

Then enters Hannibal. A fair King, wise despite his youth, though no wilting young man. He questioned all of the old King's council, graded them on their loyalty and judgement. One of them he beheaded the same hour as his coronation. Two others, he sent into exile. A fourth he kept for himself, and Will is surprised to read Chilton's name as the man who survived. He huffs, and thinks it interesting that the man managed to keep his head and his home. Perhaps being a doctor was of paramount importance, back then.

He reads Hannibal's first address to his people, promising them to uphold the law and to treat them all fairly, and to make every decision with their wellbeing in mind. The next day he ordered a ration on the castle, and all extra food to be sent to the orphanages and widow halls, the brothels and fighting pits; the lowest of the low, to see them well-fed.

Will smiles, reading that. The book has no overall author, merely seems to be a collection of essays and tales from many, but he does not doubt the truth of them. Knowing what he knows of Hannibal, having spoken to him and seen how he behaves when he has no one to behave for, except a servant whose opinion he has no obligation to consider, he does not think any words in this book will be written falsely. Neither praising nor judgmental, just simple fact.

It is growing close to the evening meal, and Will's stomach clenches in anticipation. He takes the book to his room and buries it beneath his cloak, before he washes his hands and fetches Hannibal's dinner tray, carrying it up the stairs and down the winding hallways to the King's rooms.

He knocks, and enters, finding Hannibal mid-pace. Hannibal stops, and meets his eyes, and Will feels suddenly as though no time has passed at all since this afternoon and this moment. He swallows, and wills his hands to remain steady as he places the tray down at Hannibal's seat.

"Will," Hannibal breathes, and Will meets his eyes. Hannibal gestures for him to approach, and Will does, and there is a strange franticness about Hannibal now, a caged predator pacing in his cell. His eyes are dark, his cheeks barely colored a flattering pink.

He is frozen in place, and Will presses his lips together, letting his teeth sink into his lower one. Hannibal's eyes drop to the motion, his lips parting in mimic. Will knows he will not strike first, but he cannot look at Hannibal, cannot read his eyes, and think he was not eagerly awaiting this next meeting of theirs as well.

Smiling, with more confidence and bravado than he feels, he sinks to his knees.

Hannibal breathes out harshly, and down here Will can smell the musk of a man's arousal, the saltiness he has come to equate with desire. He leans in, smiling when Hannibal's hand gently threads through his hair and cradles the base of his skull, and he runs his hands up from Hannibal's ankles, under his robes and over his leggings, until he reaches the belt slung low around his hips.

Hannibal has been brought to a halt in front of his writing desk, his chair askew behind him. Will lifts his gaze, meets his eyes, and smiles. "Would you like to sit, my Lord?" he purrs, calling upon the countenance that seemed to please so many of his bedfellows before; a sweet willingness, a ravenous desire, that blackens his eyes and makes his mouth red and wet.

Hannibal swallows, and sits, and Will crawls forward to rest between his feet. He parts Hannibal's robes and pushes up his tunic, tugging at his leggings and the long strips of his underwear until he can work Hannibal's cock free. It's long, thick-headed and leaking, and Will can say his answering growl is not entirely performative.

Hannibal's free hand flexes on his thigh, and he looks like he wants to touch Will, to fist both hands in his hair and drive his cock deep into Will's mouth. Will smiles at him, cradles his erection gently, and maps the shaft with his tongue, closing his eyes and sighing like nothing pleases him more to take his master in his mouth. Certainly, that heavy warmth has returned to his belly; Hannibal is delightfully reactive, letting out a gut-deep, powerful exhale as Will licks up the shaft of his cock and brushes his lips along the gathering wetness at the head.

Will takes Hannibal's free hand and guides it to his hair. "You're the King," he says, making sure Hannibal is watching him when he says it. "Take what you want."

Hannibal's upper lip twitches, and Will parts his lips, groaning as Hannibal shifts his weight, secures his stance, and pulls Will's head down to take half of him in one thrust. Will moans softly, focuses breath through his nose, loosens and relaxes his throat, and Hannibal answers him with a rumble of his own, tipping his head back, his fingers tight and tugging on Will's hair as he rolls his hips, fighting for that extra inch. Will allows his mouth to flood, tightens the seal of his lips, makes his mouth as warm and welcoming as he can. He drags his tongue below the bloom of Hannibal's cockhead, cheeks hollowing as he sucks, and Hannibal spreads one hand wide along the base of his skull to hold him steady, his other hand pushing Will's hair from his face so he can watch his cock sink into Will's bruised, reddening mouth.

Hannibal tastes like any other man, here; warm flesh, a little saltier than a kiss might be. His bitter precum coats Will's tongue and Will licks at him ravenously, shifts closer, bracing his hands on Hannibal's knees as he forces himself further down, until his nose is buried in the curling hairs around the base of his cock.

Hannibal growls, loudly, gripping Will's hair and lifting him up only to force him back down all the way again. His cock bruises and fills Will's throat, and he clenches a fist, fighting the urge to gag, his mouth dripping wet as he gasps and tries to swallow past the sensation. Thankfully, Hannibal does not force him to linger long, but starts a rough, slow pace in his mouth, using him, _taking _him, just as Will bade him do. The casualness of it all strikes Will in a way hot and unexpected, the warmth in his stomach blooming and growing talons, digging into his spine.

He whimpers, when Hannibal gentles the hand in his hair, smooths his thumb down Will's temple, to his warm cheek. There are tears there, reflexively summoned from having something so far down his throat. He pets through the trail and Will opens his eyes, pulls back so that he can see Hannibal's face. The blackness there, the dark pink coloring his cheeks, the way his lips are parted to show his teeth – the talons in Will's stomach flex and burrow, and he moans, sinking back down onto Hannibal's cock.

Hannibal growls, and pulls him off, pushing himself to his feet and yanking Will upright. He turns Will and pushes him against the chair, his neck bent over the seat of it, cushioned by Hannibal's hand, and Hannibal braces himself on the back of the chair and uses his new grip to fuck Will's mouth with forceful abandon. Will moans when he has the air to, one hand cradled between Hannibal's legs, putting pressure on his balls and the flesh behind them, the other one gently kneading at his own erection as Hannibal snarls, fucking between his lips so harshly that Will cannot keep his seal, and must allow saliva to coat his cheeks and jaw.

Hannibal grips his hair tightly, going still, and presses deep, forcing Will to breathe in raggedly, and hold it. His lips twitch, his stomach tense, as Hannibal floods his throat, spilling against the weak, abused muscles. Will sucks him lightly, pleased when Hannibal gasps, his hands going gentle, the one on the back of the chair dropping to pet over Will's face affectionately.

He pulls out and Will gasps, swallowing harshly, trying to catch his breath. Hannibal steps away from him and grabs his dinner napkin, wetting it and holding it out to Will so he can wipe his face while Hannibal corrects his clothes. Will doesn't expect Hannibal to pay any attention to his own arousal, and aside from a slow drag of his eyes down Will's prone, shivering body, he doesn't.

Hannibal presses his lips together, and then fetches a cup of wine for Will, and offers it, taking his napkin back as payment. Will drinks, and pushes himself to unsteady feet, flushed and trembling and still trying to catch his breath. Hannibal sits, and Will does not wait for an invitation before he takes his seat at Hannibal's left side, for truthfully he's not sure his legs can support him just yet.

He would give anything to have Hannibal speak, but Hannibal seems to need some time to recover as well, and so Will has mercy on his master, and continues to sip at the wine as Hannibal begins his meal.

Finally, after a while, when Hannibal seems more like himself, he says; "Was I too rough with you?"

Will smiles, and shakes his head. Rasps, "No, my Lord." Hannibal eyes him, but Will does not miss the pleased light in his eyes at hearing Will so well-used. Will touches his lips to the cool rim of the cup, relishing the chill against his warm, swollen flesh. "Will you let me serve you in that manner again?"

Hannibal hums. "Yes," he replies, and Will smiles in delight. "You could use the practice."

Will blinks at him, his brow arching. "Was my ability lacking?" he asks.

Hannibal smiles, and Will realizes he is being teased. He flushes, his smile gentling. "Not at all. You are quite capable. But even the best swordsman must keep practicing. I can tell you have not done that for a while."

Will huffs, thinking of Jack. "A friend of mine said that two men sharing a bed is just another kind of sword-fighting," he says, and Hannibal grins, amused at the crude joke. "Do not call him wise; I will have to judge your perception of wisdom if you do."

"Perish the thought," Hannibal replies. His voice is low, rougher than normal, as though he was the one who was just on his knees. He takes another bite of his food – it is not another pie, for Will did have words with the cook, though he will never tell Hannibal that.

He clears his throat and sets the wine down, feeling calmer now. The clawed heat in his stomach has settled, brought to a low burn, and he can ignore it.

"Do you know how to fight with a sword, Will?" Hannibal asks. "In the traditional sense?"

"No," Will replies, shaking his head. "I trained somewhat with a staff, but not with a sword."

Hannibal nods. His eyes dart from the wine cup to his meal, to the window, back to his hands again. Will imagines he is a man capable of following many trails of thought at once, and he would do well to anticipate apparently abrupt changes of topic, for Hannibal will have already reached it by the time Will catches up.

He breathes out, and says, sounding suddenly quite unsure; "Did you enjoy being used like that?"

Will hums. "Does a woman?"

"Will." His tone is sharp, and Will stiffens, and swallows.

"Surely you can smell that I did," he says instead.

"Yes," Hannibal replies, and Will flushes at the idea of Hannibal smelling his arousal. He wonders what it smells like – perhaps he can find out, and make a newer potion out of that, next time. "Yet you remain unsatisfied."

"I was focused on you," Will says honestly. "And I didn't want to make a mess."

Hannibal huffs a laugh, though it's not an amused sound.

"Next time," Hannibal says, slicing off a bite of meat to punctuate the words, "focus on yourself, too."

Will shivers, and nods. "Yes, my Lord," he murmurs.

"Since you seem so eager to make the comparison, did you often play the role of the woman, in your liaisons with your male lovers?"

Will's breath catches, and he forces himself to school his expression. He wants to be honest with Hannibal, and tell him that, truthfully, Will only ever used his mouth and his hands with them. Means to make men slick were better put to use keeping fires going or seasoning meat, and it would have been foolish to waste so much resource when there were women nearby who produced it naturally.

If he says that, Hannibal might be inclined to go slower with him, and his goal will be harder to achieve. So he says; "Yes", and smiles. "I prefer it that way."

Hannibal's brow furrows, and he meets Will's eyes; confused and curious. "Why?"

Will smiles. It is easier to stretch this other truth; "Because I would rather nurture than conquer."

"Implying that to make love to someone is the same as conquering them?" Hannibal asks, his frown deepening.

"In my world, it was," Will replies with a shrug. "A mutual contract, to be sure. Just like war. But passion is felt in the stomach, my Lord, and whether your weapon of choice is metal or flesh, making love and making war do not come from different places."

Hannibal stares at him a moment longer, and then he smiles. "You must have been a philosopher in your past life," he says warmly. Will smiles, his cheeks heating. "I would ask this of you, though, Will – if at any point, you wish to end this part of our relationship, you need not fear my reaction."

"Of course, my Lord," Will replies softly. "But I do not think I will change my mind."

"That heartens me," Hannibal says. He sighs, and covers his meal, half-eaten, and pushes it away. "You may finish this yourself, if you like. I have another meeting with my aunt before I may rest, and I would do well not to be late."

Will nods, standing, internally pleased at knowing just _why _Hannibal may be late. Hannibal stands with him, his eyes lingering on Will's mouth as Will gathers the tray in his hands. Will pauses – to await further instruction, or because Hannibal is looking at him like he wants to put Will on his knees again. He waits.

Hannibal sighs, and smiles, and turns from him. "You may leave. I'll see you in the morning."

"Have a pleasant night, my Lord," Will says, and bows his head to Hannibal's back. He turns and leaves, high on the thrill of putting his plan into action finally. If Hannibal's appetite is as insatiable as his gaze, Will can easily achieve his hundred victories before summer floods the mountains.

Night brings to Will that same fevered heat, that franticness clawing at his belly. Whatever beast dwells in every man's chest, whatever makes him hunt and fight and fuck just for the sheer pleasure of it, Will thinks his own might have stirred, and blinked open a single curious eye.

He knows sleep will not come to him – Will is used to not sleeping long, or well, and can exist on no more than three to four hours on any given night. Yet he is already in his room, and doesn't want to risk disturbing his friends and fellows by trying to leave the servants' quarters. Besides, he is in no mood to make excuses or talk, and if he wakes anyone, he will have to tell them what he's up to.

He wishes he had gone to the library, or taken his lantern and resumed his slow roam and exploration of the halls. He would like to find the old armory, where what wasn't melted down and repurposed was preserved for historians and students of forgery and leather weaving. The old King, Will is sure, had capable armorers and well-groomed soldiers. Tyrants can't afford not to have that kind of thing.

He sighs, and closes his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep. But he cannot. There is a creature in his chest now, and it is awake, and giving a curious rumble, pelt brushing the walls of Will's mind. It is a companion Will has not had for months, years even – yet the beast is not emaciated, not sickly and pale with fever. It prowls well-oiled and strong, a purring cat-like thing with a dog's sense of smell and eyes of an eagle.

Will swallows, wets his lips, and lifts his hand to his face. He still smells like Hannibal, here, coated along his upper lip, the soft flesh between that and his nose. His fingers, stained with the King's sweat from petting between his legs. He closes his eyes, keeps his breaths quiet and slow, and worms his free hand down to his hip. Lingers there.

He dares not touch, lest someone open their eyes at just the wrong time and see a giveaway bulge in his blanket or hear a stuttered gasp that is too obvious in a space so quite and small. His nails drag a small line around the jut of his hipbone and even that single, chaste touch sends heat through him. The beast in his chest shows its claws, its teeth, and hunches up animal-like, ready to pounce.

He squeezes his eyes more tightly shut and in his mind, quite unbidden but certainly not unwelcome, he conjures an image of another animal. The same dark-eyed and ravenous thing he had seen in Hannibal. He had heard his King's beast calling in answer, snarling and salivating as Will went to his knees. Heard, in his little cries and powerful rumbles, a thing he could call his kin.

Hannibal's beast, in his head, is ruffled with gold and ashen fur, streaks of grey to note his wisdom and age – not old, no, and certainly not weathered. Distinguished and fine-blooded. A creature with a mane of sunlight and horns that match his crown. Bigger. Muscled and sleek, with big hands.

His hands. Will bites his lower lip hard so he doesn't make a sound. Flattens his palm over his hipbone and shivers when his fingers brush the edge of his pubic hair. So close, pressure teased at, hinted at. He can't help but think of Hannibal's hand there and almost cries out from the force of that mental image. He did not expect to be unaffected, for Hannibal is an attractive person in both mind and body, but the force and fervor of his passion takes him by surprise.

He thinks of his poet friend, and the man's wife. Thinks of tasting summer peaches on Hannibal's tongue and suckling honey from his neck. Thinks of going to his knees and taking his master's cock in the wake of a great battle while blood is still dripping from Hannibal's sword.

He shoves his knuckles to his teeth and forces his hand away lest he give into the temptation to touch himself. The struggle to resist brings an ache to his jaw, his eyes clenched so tightly shut, a deep pulsing snarl in his belly as his creature snaps its teeth and rages against its bounds. Passion is felt in the stomach, and his entire body is aflame with it.

He does not sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

He is awake when the morning bell chimes, and on his feet before all the rest. He rushes through his bath, careful to be thorough, but not to linger, and gathers Hannibal's breakfast tray and heads upstairs. He knocks, and enters, finding the King still in bed.

He pauses, and sets his tray down. The air is quite cold, so he lights a fire, and as the soft crackle and pop of the wood begins, the flames leaping up merrily, Hannibal stirs, and sits up in bed. Will swallows, for he has never seen Hannibal's chest until now, and his eyes linger on the thick pelt of hair spread out across his chest. His fingers curl, and his mouth feels flooded.

Hannibal rubs a hand over his face, looking uncharacteristically soft in the grey pre-dawn light, and rises from his bed with a sigh. Will's breath catches as he sees the rest of Hannibal's body, except what is covered by his underwear. Sees what he only had hints of before – his strong shoulders, his thick thighs. He's long-legged and, well, _regal_, the kind of thing Will thinks he would happily stare at statues and paintings of for hours without pause.

His hands feel too warm, wanting to touch. Hannibal goes to a wardrobe and pulls out a robe with wide sleeves, long enough to fall to his knees, and shrugs it on, tying it. Will fights down the urge to make a disappointed sound at seeing so much of his skin covered.

Then, Hannibal smiles at him. Whether he knew Will was staring, or only just noticed him, Will cannot be sure – there is neither surprise nor mischief in his eyes, just warm welcome. "Good morning, Will," he greets, and takes his seat. "Did you sleep well?"

"No," Will confesses before he can think better of it.

Hannibal lifts his brows. "No?"

"No fault of yours, my Lord; a philosopher's brain never rests," Will teases weakly, but it makes Hannibal smile. He gestures for Will to sit with him and try his portion, before he takes it back to begin eating. Will brought fresh wine and he takes of Hannibal's cup first before passing it back to his King.

"I'm glad," Hannibal murmurs. "I confess my mind was also quite busy last night. I was…worried." Will frowns, and Hannibal sighs. He shakes his head and offers nothing more, and Will wonders if, perhaps, the same thoughts that plagued him during the night also affected Hannibal. It's a pleasing thought – not for the King's suffering, but that he might have been so affected by Will that he, too, prowled in his own mind as a beast, hungry, hunting.

He's not sure what to say, for he thinks that admitting to his thoughts will settle Hannibal's nerves, but quite severely rattle his own. "Was your aunt well?" he asks instead.

Hannibal nods, brightening at the change of subject. "Yes. And I'm pleased to say that my decision regarding Chiyoh's troupe has been made. She will go with the first frost." He pauses, and adds; "I'd like you to accompany her."

Will blinks, and looks to Hannibal in surprise.

"You may be able to draw a map, but a native's ability to navigate the caves will be a steep advantage. And I think you are the kind of man who has a better visual memory." Will smiles, for he cannot deny that. "So I would like you to accompany her and her regiment. It should take no longer than a week."

"If that is your wish, my Lord, I happily obey," Will replies with another nod.

"I would also like to set aside a few hours of your morning every day to train with a sword. You will train with the man who taught me, so that you are at least somewhat capable should the need arise."

Will hums. "As you wish it."

Hannibal pauses, and meets his eyes, head tilted in consideration. "You are very accommodating, Will," he murmurs. "I'm curious if there is anything I could ask you to do that you would refuse."

"I have no moral prejudice against sword fighting, my Lord; I simply never needed to hone the skill," Will replies. "And I do not believe you would ever ask me to do something that goes against my character, or yours." He smiles. "Even for the sake of curiosity."

"Is that so?" Hannibal says, his eyes growing dark again.

Will nods.

"You have placed a lot of faith in my character, then. We haven't known each other all that long, Will."

Will considers this, and wonders how it can feel like, really, he has. He does know Hannibal – enough to trust him. Enough to want him. He swallows and says nothing. There is a tension simmering in the air, the fire touching his back and his neck, making him flush. His tongue feels heavy, and warm. The emptiness of his own mouth bothers him, feels cavernous and raw like a fresh cave-in. He wets his lips and sighs through his nose.

"I believe," he says slowly, "that we are both men who appreciate shared and equal ground. That every kindness and act of service should be rewarded." Hannibal's gaze is heavy on his face, and Will knows his cheeks have colored hot and red. He pets over his neck, feeling sweat gather below his hairline, and he wipes it away. He is sure Hannibal can smell it, for his nostrils flare, his eyes flash with something hungry that cannot be sated by food. "It is not unlike how we try to appease the gods we worship."

"Sacrifices and service, for acts of kindness; gifts of the harvest and warm weather," Hannibal says, and Will nods. "Do you have some goal in mind, Will, for continuing to serve me?"

"Only that which you have said," Will replies, and meets his eyes. "Kindness. Friendship. Your favor, if you're willing to give it; if I promise never to abuse it, and claim that I am the favorite of the gods, and above other men."

Hannibal says nothing, but his silence feels like a roar. The beasts in Will's head dance closer to each other, curious rumbles, muzzles brushing. His teeth ache, and itch. He wants to put his hands on Hannibal's thighs and feel them tremble.

"Gods are ravenous creatures," Hannibal murmurs. It sounds like a warning.

Will smiles. "I know," he replies, equally soft. He meets Hannibal's eyes with as much challenge as he dares. "They are also selfish, and passionate, and to be on my knees for them is the greatest honor I can fathom."

Hannibal's upper lip twitches, and he pushes himself to his feet suddenly. Will scrambles to rise as well, but before he can, one of Hannibal's hands is in his hair, halting his progress, and he gasps as Hannibal tightens his grip and he looks up to the eyes of his King. "Kneel," he commands, and Will sinks to his knees, graceless and wanton. He swallows as Hannibal unties his robe, baring his chest and belly, and pulls his hardening cock from his underwear.

Will needs no instruction – he parts his lips and takes Hannibal down with a grateful moan, lashes going low as his empty mouth is filled with his master. It's better than he remembers, more potent and somehow more exhilarating with the dawn light and the fire painting Hannibal in fierce oranges and pinks.

Hannibal steps close to him, both hands in Will's hair now, and holds him still, his hips rolling in smooth, graceful thrusts as he clogs Will's throat and bruises the muscles in his neck. Will gasps, panting, wet and hard, and he remembers Hannibal's words from the night before.

He drops a hand to his own erection, his cock flushed and warm and hard in his hand. He moans weakly as Hannibal fucks his mouth, gripping his own cock and stroking in time with the King's unhurried thrusts. He sucks as hard as he's able, cheeks hollowing, and wonders how it can feel so simply _good_, to be at Hannibal's mercy like this.

Hannibal steps closer, one of his feet worming between Will's thighs, giving him something to grind against. He pulls out of Will's mouth and Will gasps, moaning weakly, unable to stop the animal, rabbiting thrust he forces against Hannibal's bare foot. Hannibal's cock smears, wet and hot, along his cheek and through his hair, and Hannibal forces him to bow his head so he can fuck into his own hand, knotted tight in Will's curls.

"My Lord," he gasps.

"Keep going, Will," Hannibal orders, his own voice tight with arousal. The scent of him is overwhelming, musky and salty, and Will whimpers, gritting his teeth as he grinds against Hannibal's foot, paints his ankle and the bottom of his leg with his precum. It's a raw and debasing action, wildlings rutting together like animals, and Will loves it. He loves it precisely because it is not how one should expect to lay with a King. He loves it because he thinks Hannibal would not do this with any other person – this is an unrefined thing Will inspires in him.

He touches himself harshly, pushing his cock between his palm and Hannibal's ankle, groaning at the friction. His belly tenses, his knees aching and cold against the stone. He whimpers when, teased so mercilessly by his own mind, he finishes quickly, spilling over the stone between Hannibal's feet with a harsh groan.

Hannibal grabs his hair and forces himself back between his slack lips, Will too delirious and spent to form a seal. It's wet and rough and he snarls, pressing deep, and pours himself down Will's throat with a series of aborted twitches of his hips.

Will swallows it all, weak with benediction, and gasps when Hannibal pulls out of him, collapsing to his free hand when Hannibal lets him go, and steps back, careful not to slip in the mess Will left on the floor. He heaves, seed dripping from his tongue with his saliva, and swallows it down again, trembling as Hannibal catches his breath and fixes his clothes.

He looks up when his vision sharpens, and he is given a glimpse of the wine cup. He takes it and drinks a large swallow to wash away the taste and wet his suddenly so-dry tongue, and Hannibal smiles at him and places it back on the table, crouching down and petting through his hair.

The creature in Will's chest is purring, sated and low-lidded, happily grooming its own wet muzzle. Will lifts his eyes to meet Hannibal's, and sees the other beast smiling in answer. For the first time in perhaps his whole life, words escape him, for he is sated, yes, and sore, but still so hungry. He is ravenous for a taste of Hannibal's mouth, for more of his touch, to feel his King petting through his hair and over his neck and down his back. He wants to spread his thighs wide and give Hannibal what he has given no other. He wants it so much he feels blind with it.

Hannibal's thumb smooths over the corner of his bruised, reddened mouth, his eyes dropping to Will's lips. He looks hungry, too. Will draws in a shaky breath, sweaty and trembling and raw on the inside. His mouth is full now of new sand and water, but the rest of him feels so empty.

"Will," Hannibal rasps. He's howling, by the gods, Will can hear him howling.

He reaches up with his clean hand and pets Hannibal's sweat-damp hair back from his face, curls his fingers around his nape. They close the distance together, mouths meeting in a starving thing; it is chaste only for a second, and then it is not, Will's mouth eagerly parting for his master's tongue as Hannibal licks into him, clutches at his hair, like there is antivenom on Will's tongue and Hannibal is shaking from poison.

His free hand flattens to the ground, smears through his own mess, and he moans weakly, gasping when Hannibal lets him free for air. He's high with it, heart racing, a fever thrumming in his blood. Hannibal cups his face and kisses his forehead, breathes in deeply the scent of himself in Will's hair, and then finally lets him go, and helps Will to his feet.

He gives Will another cloth and Will wipes his hands, and then wets the cloth with water from a bucket by the fire, and silently goes to his knees to clean up his mess as Hannibal continues with his breakfast. By the time he's done, Hannibal is too, and he stands and gathers the tray with a smile.

He bows his head when Hannibal looks at him, and says; "Thank you, my Lord."

Hannibal's head tilts.

"Am I to meet the sword master this morning?"

"Yes," Hannibal says, and runs a hand through his hair, taming it further. "After you complete your duties here, of course."

"Of course," Will replies with another nod. "Thank you."

Hannibal lifts his chin. "Does it please you so greatly when I use you, that you keep thanking me?" he asks. There is a tension in his tone again, something that makes Will think, perhaps, Hannibal is having doubts about this again. It would not be the first time, and Will can understand that - given what they've spoken about, he may suspect Will is trying, somehow, to manipulate him or earn his favor with carnal offerings.

He wants to be honest, but he cannot tell the whole truth. He huffs a sheepish laugh and pets over the back of his neck with a hand that still stinks of his own seed. "In truth, my Lord, I don't think I can properly describe how it pleases me, and can only say that yes, it does." Hannibal hums.

Will breathes in, and sets the tray down. He sits, and leans forward, until Hannibal looks at him in surprise. "Last night," he whispers, "I laid awake thinking of you. That was why I couldn't sleep." Hannibal's nostrils flare, his throat moves when he swallows. It's an animal reaction; one Will likes very much. "I do not say these next words out of any desire to conjure obligation in you, or render any affection besides that which you might already hold for me; if we were among my people, I would invite you to my bed every night. I would seek you out every morning in the hopes that you would touch me."

"But we are not among your people," Hannibal says. He sounds breathless. His eyes are black.

"No," Will agrees, "we are not. I suppose I can only compare to what I know." He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, and stands again. He touches his own stomach, biting his lower lip, and wonders if the beast in his chest will sleep, soon. Wonders if Hannibal's own is still awake and snarling, still hungry.

He meets the King's eyes, and knows it is. "I'll be back to continue my tasks, and then I will meet the sword master," he murmurs, and bows his head again, before he takes the tray and leaves.

He doesn't have a lot of time, so he hurries in redressing Hannibal's bed and emptying and scrubbing his chamber pot. Hannibal is not in his rooms, so Will can work without scrutiny or making excuses as to why he is in such a rush. Then, he gathers his cloak and hurries to the markets, to the soap-maker's house.

Tobias is inside, and greets him with a smile. "Hello, my friend!" he says.

"Good morning, sir," Will replies with a smile. "I know it's early. Do you have it?"

"I do, indeed," Tobias says, and stands from his station. He goes to a collection of the small vials, the same size Will commissioned from him, and hands Will one with the freshest wrapping. Will smiles, and puts his nose to it, breathing in. He is not sure how accurate a scent it is, but he cannot deny that he recognizes himself in it. "I added a little something extra to it, as well," Tobias adds with a wink.

"Oh?" Will asks, brows rising.

"Yes! You already had a cinnamon flavor, which is good. I added an additional spice which has been proven to conjure…carnal feelings," Tobias tells him. Will blinks at him. "Your lady will be aflame with desire for you, my friend, or you may cast me into the street and lash me as a liar!"

"Nothing so drastic, I'm sure," Will replies, flushing, but undeniably pleased. He's sure, if Tobias speaks the truth, that such a scent will affect Hannibal most savagely. The idea of his King being soaked in Will's scent, plastered hard and wanting to his own sheets, desperately chasing it fills him with a visceral, bared-teeth anticipation. "I wonder, since you mention it; will it work on a man?" At Tobias' curious headtilt, Will grins, and adds; "Shall I be swept up with lust for my own scent?"

He laughs. "A lady's nose is much more sensitive to such things," he replies, with the casual confidence of many years, Will is sure, proving it is so. "Ladies in particular, are more sensitive. They are far more clever and feel things much more deeply than us simple men."

Will smiles. "If it works, then you can expect to make me a regular customer. I thank you."

"Good luck," Tobias replies, and sees him out. Will tucks the vial into his cloak and rushes back to the servants' quarters to divest himself of his prize. He pauses, seeing a notebook and piece of lead on Franklyn's cot, and after a moment, takes the lead and etches two strikes into the back cover of his book. He has given the King two moments of pleasure, and can keep count here.

He pauses. Can it count if he received pleasure as well? He presses his lips together, and halfway down the binding, makes another mark for himself. He will keep track of both, he decides – if they continue to equally enjoy each other, he will simply have to work twice as hard. It only seems fair.

He does not know when Hannibal told the sword master to expect him, but he doesn't want to be late. He buries his vial and book beneath his cloak, returns Franklyn's lead stick, and hurries to the small patch of grounds behind the castle where he has seen the soldiers train.

The scent of sweaty men is overpowered only by the smell of grass, and yet Will finds it strangely familiar; the air is damp and reminds him of his cave homes, and he navigates the paired-off soldiers training with ease, clacking their wooden swords against their practice shields. He smiles to himself, and sends an errant prayer for Francis, Randall, and Jack, that they are training well and getting closer to their hundred victories as Will is getting closer to his.

He finds a man standing a little way from the crowd, amidst a cluster of weapons. The man looks up as he approaches, and his eyes are sharp, perusing Will up and down. "Are you the King's new servant?" he asks, and Will nods, bowing his head in respect. The man stands. "I am Rinaldo, and that is what you will call me. No 'Sir's or 'My Lord's or any of that finery. Nod if you understand."

Will blinks, and nods.

"Good. Now, do you have any training with a weapon?"

"A staff, my -. Rinaldo," Will says, correcting himself when the man raises his set of grey, thick brows, unimpressed. "A staff."

"Mm." Rinaldo gestures to a long piece of wood that looks like a spear with the head unattached. Will picks it up, testing the weight and finding it heavier than he would normally have chosen, but not unbalanced. Rinaldo picks up a sword – wooden as well, but heavy-looking, a broad two-handed weapon. He takes a ready stance and Will mimics him, the muscle memory coming to him easily. His wrists are loose, his grip light.

Rinaldo says nothing, merely rushes Will, jabbing fiercely at his shoulder. Will parries, bowing away, and sweeps for his legs, but the staff is heavier than he's used to and he ends up knocking against the ground with a huff, which is all the advantage Rinaldo needs to lay his sword heavy on the back of Will's neck.

"And you're dead," he says. He is not smug, but he's certainly not impressed either. "Again."

Will grits his teeth, hefts his staff, and lunges first. He aims to strike the man's head, stops at the last moment and twists again, landing a smarting blow to his thigh. Rinaldo grunts, but again the staff is so heavy, Will doesn't have enough time to get away before there is a hand in his hair and the point of the wooden sword is shoved ungraciously under his arm.

"Dead again," Rinaldo says, and lets him go. "Armor is weak here," he slaps a meaty hand on Will's neck, making him wince, "here," another slap under his arm, "and here." The last slap is to the side of his knee, and Will hisses, flinching from the blow. "Though a good blow to the head will certainly buy you a moment."

Will nods. Rinaldo reminds Will of one of the men who might be his father – a gruff, boorish fellow, the kind of man who liked to hunt on his own but never came back empty-handed. He was a man of few words who believed in leading by example; no talk, no explanation, just do as he did. Will understands that kind of man.

He readies himself and ducks low as Rinaldo aims for his head, grits his teeth and jabs hard, upward, with the end of his staff, landing a blow in the gut. With no blade, of course, it will not pierce, but it's enough to wind Rinaldo and Will strides forward, using the advantage to kick him to his back on the ground and finish with the staff end hovering at the aborted stop of a deadly strike between his eyes.

"And I'm dead," Rinaldo says, and Will steps back and lets him up. "Good. But you are not here to train with a staff. Take up a sword." Will nods, and lets the staff fall, instead finding a smaller, shorter wooden blade, the mimic of the swords he remembers the soldiers who captured his people using. It is sharply-tipped, though blunt, and flattens in a diamond on each edge so that both sides of the blade can be used. He swings it in his hand, testing the grip. It's much lighter than a staff, and he feels like he might accidentally let go of it at any moment.

"Here," Rinaldo says, and swings his sword in a slow arch, stopping it just shy of Will's hip. His brows rise, and Will swallows, and mimics him until the edge of his weapon touches Rinaldo's breastplate. Rinaldo nods, and then changes his grip, slanting the sword down in a savage piercing strike. Will mimics that, as well. Then, a lunge, and Rinaldo laughs as Will tries too hard, too much force, and goes stumbling.

"The real thing is heavier," he promises. That's all the warning Will gets before he's being rushed again. He tries to parry, but forgets he only has one hand on the weapon, and ends up catching Rinaldo's sword with his free hand. "Dead," Rinaldo says, and then he's swinging for Will's neck. Will ducks, and then lunges, but Rinaldo easily pushes his thrust aside, turns, kicks him to his knees, and Will huffs when he feels the blade on his neck. "Dead."

Will growls to himself, and rises to his feet, twisting the blade in his hand again and gripping it tight. He can tell this is going to be a long series of sessions before he becomes capable, but if Hannibal wants him to be able to fight, well, he will learn. It will be a good skill to have, in the end, once he's free.

Will is exhausted by the time lunch rolls around. Rinaldo releases him with instructions to return the following day after he feeds the King breakfast and finishes his duties there, and Will nods, soaked with sweat, his legs and arms so sore and tired that he feels he no longer possesses them. He moves as if in a daze and almost drops Hannibal's tray, and almost trips several times, as he makes his way up the stairs.

Hannibal is there, and he greets Will with a smile that quickly turns amused at seeing him so exhausted. "Rinaldo is a relentless teacher," he says, when Will sets his tray down. He doesn't know if he can stand, but forces himself to, until Hannibal bids him sit and take the first bite and the first sip of wine. Will is ravenous, but forces himself not to eat more.

"He reminds me of someone I knew," Will replies. "A man who teaches by example."

"I've found it's a good way to learn," Hannibal says, sitting as well. "Not all of my soldiers are able to read, and example not only shows them what to do, but also forces them to pay attention to themselves, and their opponent."

Will tilts his head.

"Do you think schools of fish would be so safe if they did not learn how to migrate and move as one? If I put you in a band of ten men, and told you that you would have to face one hundred, you would do best to learn how each of your brothers fights and therefore accommodate for any weaknesses within your group."

Will hums, and nods. "I see the logic there, but there is a flaw," he says. Hannibal tilts his head, brows lifting. "If we all learn from one man, and train only with each other, then we only know how to fight and move with that man and with each other. If someone came at one of your soldiers with anything other than a sword, do you think he'd know what to do?"

Hannibal hums in consideration.

"Even I, untrained as I am, managed to best Rinaldo once with a staff," Will says with a tired shrug. "Only once, I will admit, but it only takes one blow, placed just right, to weaken or kill a man."

"You are not wrong," Hannibal says warmly. He continues to eat, and Will's stomach rumbles loudly in answering hunger. He flushes and cups his belly, but of course Hannibal notices. "If you would like to go fetch yourself some food, and dine with me, you may."

Will blinks at him in surprise. He smiles, and shakes his head. "I confess, my Lord, I don't know if I could make another trip," he says with a laugh. "As you said, Rinaldo is a relentless teacher."

"You'll grow used to it, I'm sure," Hannibal says with a smile. "Well, when I'm finished here, I have some more correspondence for you to take, and then there is another council meeting which you are welcome to attend if you are not too tired. Aside from that, the day is yours until the evening meal."

Will swallows. "And what of your day, my Lord?" he asks, and Hannibal makes a curious sound in answer. "I know you are more than capable of handling your duties and tasks on your own, and I certainly won't wish to imply you cannot, but if there's anything I can help you with, you need only ask."

"Such as?"

"I cannot claim to know the life of a King," Will replies with a shake of his head. "But if there are…. I don't know, deliveries to sign for, letters to write, meetings with boring people you would rather not entertain…"

Hannibal huffs a laugh. "That is not for the role of a servant, Will."

Will flushes. "Of course. Forgive me; I didn't mean to overstep."

"On the contrary, I find the idea absolutely delightful," Hannibal says with a smile. "But we cannot overturn the entire country in a night." He pauses around his next mouthful, and hums thoughtfully. "There are some things you can do, perhaps. In my presence at first, so that the merchants and tradesmen know you can be trusted. But I would do well not to become too dependent on you."

Will's breath stalls for a moment, and he looks at Hannibal, who seems troubled by his own words as much as Will. He clears his throat and soldiers on; "I may send you on errands that will take you away from the castle. Such as your mission with Chiyoh. So I must make sure the Kingdom does not stop and start for your presence."

"Of course," Will replies weakly.

Hannibal pauses again, and says; "Do you think it's foolish, or perhaps too trusting, for me to accept your offer to assist me more?"

"No," Will says, "though I'm not sure I can answer in an unbiased way. I only ask if you ever have reason to doubt my loyalty and friendship, you speak of it now so I can put your mind at ease."

"Not at all, for now," Hannibal says, and his tone is teasing despite his words.

"I think it is a foolish King who does not take advantage of the resources at hand," Will continues. "If I were your relative, or a nobleman, and I offered the same, would you grant me that honor?"

Hannibal sighs. "Truthfully, Will, I think it is because you are neither of those things that I am more inclined to trust you," he replies. "You have a frightfully honest nature about you. Affected, perhaps, but I like to think myself a good judge of character, and I think if you were a man to practice any deception, it would not be for the sake of cruelty, but necessity."

A strange, tight knot of tension, of guilt, worms it way through Will's stomach. He swallows it down.

"Do you not trust your courtiers, my Lord?" he breathes.

"Trust is a strong word. I believe they will do as I tell them, and any insidious nature has yet to rear its head. But I am wary, as all good leaders must be, for any potential malcontent."

"Like poisoning your food."

Hannibal smiles. "To name one."

"Who would be your successor, should you perish?" Will asks.

Hannibal pauses, and sighs, sitting back and wiping his mouth with a napkin. "The lady Bedelia, as my closest surviving relative of age, would likely take the throne." Will swallows, and thinks of the painting and sealed room of Mischa Lecter. "She would be forced to marry, though, and I'm not sure who she would take as her King. Barring that, I suppose the next in line would be whoever I named on my deathbed."

Will winces, and turns his face away. "I regret mentioning it, now."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I don't like thinking of your death."

Hannibal smiles. "Don't worry for me, Will; I have no intention of dying any time soon. Though I can admit I find the idea of death freeing. I need not worry for what I do, for in the end, we all return to the dirt. The notion of death allows us to open ourselves to all the pleasures of life."

"And do you think you have embraced all the pleasures of life?" Will asks, meeting his eyes again.

"As many as I am able to, for certain," Hannibal replies. His voice has grown soft, faraway, lost in thought. He blinks, and returns to himself, smiling again. Will does not know if it is true to think, but he imagines Hannibal smiles much more often with him than at any other time. It's a warming thought.

Will smiles. "Is there another pleasure I can give you, my King, before I leave?"

Hannibal's eyes flash with mirth. Not only mirth; he rakes Will up and down with a knowing, hungry look. "You are a ravenous man, Will," he purrs.

"Alight with the energy of youth, and the gratitude of service," Will replies.

Hannibal laughs, and stands, and brings Will to his knees.

Will loses himself to his days like that. He spends the mornings feeding Hannibal, tending to his bedclothes, fetching water for his bath, and drinking his master down after every breakfast. Then, he trains with Rinaldo, learning the sword and how to use a shield properly. He is pleased to find Rinaldo also allows him to refamiliarize himself with his staff, so he does not forget how to use it. The afternoon meals come swiftly, with Will drunk with exhaustion. Sometimes he and Hannibal merely converse, and Hannibal asks him about the books he is reading or his opinion of the council members and what they discuss. Sometimes he does not touch Will, though he has begun the habit of parting from Will with a kiss to his forehead; an affectionate action that warms Will and brings new strength to his limbs.

His afternoons are spent running errands for Hannibal, and visiting the markets when Franklyn invites him there, or wandering the castle and admiring the grand paintings and fine artifacts brought by distant lands. He goes to the library as well, reading all that he can, soaking up poems and fanciful tales and essays on Kingdoms he has never heard of and will never see. Perhaps, when he is free, he will wander these places and see them for himself.

By the time the evening meal comes, Will feels ravenous for his King again, and it is often the case that he takes Hannibal in his mouth and lets his master use him before they settle down to eat. Sometimes Hannibal allows him to use his boot, soft leather against his aching flesh, to finish. His tongue is perma-coated in Hannibal's seed, his nose and lungs flooded with Hannibal's scent, so much that it drives him to distraction in the evening hours. The beast in his chest is not growing sated by their time together, but more and more gluttonous. He aches in the night, biting his knuckles and resisting the urge to touch himself thinking of Hannibal's hands in his hair.

His dreams grow more ardent, more desperate. He dreams of Hannibal placing warm kisses to his neck with his soft lips. Dreams of hands raking sharp lines down his back. Imagines his master's soft sheets beneath his knees, his pillow wetted with Will's saliva as he bites them when Hannibal fucks him in his dreams. He wakes feeling empty and sore, well-used though there is nothing to fill him, and he thinks Hannibal knows whenever he has had dreams like that, for Will clutches him and moans louder and can't resist the urge to touch himself and finish at Hannibal's feet during their morning meals whenever such a dream has taken him.

He marks down his book, pleased to see the number grow – Hannibal's faster than his own, though this is by design. He is up to twenty-one victories by the time the first frost comes, and Hannibal tells him he must prepare to ride out with Chiyoh and her men.

It is with a stark melancholy that Hannibal tells him this, and Will wants to ask if he will be missed. He wants Hannibal to say it, but he holds his tongue and lets Hannibal kiss his forehead and breathe in his scent from Will's hair.

He touches Hannibal's chest, and feels cavernous and weak when he meets Hannibal's eyes.

Hannibal swallows, and pets down his cheek. "Be safe, Will," he says quietly. The darkness in his eyes is not that of lust, but of longing all the same. It strikes Will so deeply he feels a sudden urge to cry out, to claw at Hannibal's feet and beg to be allowed to stay. He doesn't.

There is one more matter to attend to. Will finds Franklyn, who told him he will take over for Will while he is gone, and hands him the vial. Will has begun to use it himself, in subtle ways that he does not think Hannibal has noticed – or if he has, he hasn't said anything. The bottle is half-full – another strategic decision. To hand a servant a sealed vial of some unnamable thing before he sets off from the castle would arouse suspicion.

"The King bid this be made for him," he tells Franklyn, who takes it, wide-eyed and trusting. "A few drops to his bathwater in the morning, and put a few more in his mattress when you change his bedclothes."

Franklyn nods, and thanks him for the instruction. Will smiles, and thinks of his King, frantically searching out the source of his scent. Breathing Will in while he bathes. Wonders if he will touch himself, thinking of Will. If his heart will ache and his stomach flood with passion when he coats his hand with his seed.

He wonders, and feels an answering pang of fierce longing in his own chest. He hopes the journey passes swiftly.

He meets Chiyoh after donning his cloak and thicker riding gear that was given to him, and finds her by the stables, near a large black stallion that is easily bigger than any animal Will has ever seen. He rivals that of a bear. Beside Chiyoh's horse is another, also black, a mare with one eye discolored to a pale blue, her thick mane hanging over her face as she champs at the bit.

Chiyoh greets him with a nod. "I've never ridden a horse before," Will confesses.

She smiles at him, thin-lipped, and holds the far stirrup steady as Will gathers the mare's reins and hauls himself rather ungracefully into the saddle. "Don't fall off and go where I go," she tells him.

"Helpful," Will huffs with a roll of his eyes.

"It's the golden rule," she says, smile widening. She mounts the stallion and turns him. There are twenty soldiers to accompany them, all grim-faced men with large shields and spears, swords tied to their pommels. Will turns in surprise when he feels a pat on his leg, and blinks when he sees Rinaldo holding the spear without a head to him.

"You're useless with a sword, still," he says. "At least you might survive with this."

"Thank you," he says, and takes it, slinging the strap around his shoulders so it sits at his back. Rinaldo nods and leaves.

There are wagons within the circle of soldiers, stacked with supplies for the front. Chiyoh lifts her closed fist and calls an order, and then kicks her horse to a walk. Will mimics her, guiding his mare to walk near her, and the soldiers and wagons begin their trundle through the portcullis, down the main thoroughfare, and out of the city gates towards the Pass.

"Will," Chiyoh says, and Will looks at her, "if you betray us in these caves, I will bring your head to the King myself."

He smiles. "I'd expect no less."

It is faster on horseback, and they reach the foot of the mountains by the time the day crosses to the afternoon. Chiyoh calls a halt and summons Will to her, laying out a map on the ground. Will kneels by her, and then looks up, to the sheer incline that leads up to the Pass. It is narrow enough that only the wagons will fit into it, the horses two abreast. They will need to walk slowly.

"Where is this entrance?" Chiyoh asks.

"It is here," Will says, and points to the same spot. "A day's ride in, I should think. There's a cluster of rocks that hide the entrance, but the inside is big enough for horses and the wagons." He pauses, smiling ruefully. "Short, though. We'll all have to duck."

Chiyoh nods. "You will be leading the troupe. How long will it take to pass through?"

Will hums. "Truthfully, I'm not sure," he confesses. "I never walked from one end to the other simply to see how long it would take." He shivers, his breath misting – the air is very cold, the ground hard and covered in a thin sheen of frosted dew. He pulls his cloak tighter around himself and squints up at the sun. "Two days? Maybe three."

She hums. "Shorter than going around," she says, and rolls the map back up. She helps him onto his horse before mounting her own and calling them to move again. It is a treacherous slope, though the cold has hardened the ground so Will does not fear for loose rocks.

They make it to the rise just before sunset, and Chiyoh calls another halt, and they set up their meagre tents and fires to ward away the chill. Will eats with her, roasted meat and a roll of bread that is much less fine than Hannibal's meals, or even his own as Hannibal's servant. Still, it is warm and filling, and he can't complain.

"You will share your tent with me," she tells him.

Will lifts a brow. "Is that proper?"

"No," she replies with a smile, and leads him to the tent. It is the largest, but still barely big enough for the both of them. Will is reminded of his journey here, penned in like dogs, and smiles to himself, petting his hands over the treated cloth that will keep out the rain.

"I'm surprised the King allowed me to accompany you," he says, above the din of the other soldiers drinking and laughing with each other, content to sacrifice a few hours of sleep for the company. "Though I will say my loyalty certainly should not be in question, I doubt many others share the sentiment."

"The King did not become so well-loved by being a fool," Chiyoh replies. In the darkness, she is but a shadow, a single rise and fall of another human body, her breathing quiet and even. "I have never known a more excellent judge of character. If he trusts you, it is because you are trustworthy."

Will smiles. "Or a capable liar," he teases, throwing her words back at her.

She huffs a laugh. "I am less trusting," she says. "And more suspicious." She sits up, bracing herself on an elbow, and Will turns his head to look at her silhouette. "Would you like to play a game? I used to play it with the King when we were younger."

Will rolls onto his side.

"You will tell me something. If I think you are lying, and you are, I win. If you are not lying, and I say you are, then you win and I go."

"Okay," Will says. "You first."

Chiyoh hums, and lies back down, staring at the tent roof. Will mimics her. "I didn't always live in the castle," she says. "My mother is the cook for the King and I only came here when I was thirteen."

Will smiles. "I see the likeness, now," he says, thinking of the cook. "I think that part is true, but that you came here much younger."

She laughs. "Yes. Your turn."

Will hums, and tries to think. "I learned to read from my mother," he says. "She had all these books – she was a priestess to the gods of our tribe, and one of the people who would write down our shared knowledge when we met with others. She taught me."

Chiyoh considers that. "Truth?"

Will shakes his head. "She was not a priestess."

Chiyoh huffs. "Alright." She pauses again. "I've never known a man."

Will blinks. "Lie," he says. "Only because I don't think it's possible to look like you do and not have known one."

"No, it's the truth," Chiyoh says, smugly. "I have only been in love with one person, and he is not for me, and so I have never felt the desire to know another." Will presses his lips together.

"I've never been in love," he murmurs.

Chiyoh pauses. "That's not fair," she replies, and Will turns to look at her again. "Love is subjective, and elusive. And I hear in your voice that you believe this is so, but I do not believe you've never been in love."

"Then who wins?" Will asks with a smile.

He can practically hear her rolling her eyes. "There is a piece of wisdom I'd like to give you, Will," she says quietly. "And that is this; capable liars are often the victim of their own lies, first." Will frowns. "They practice on themselves most often. They tell themselves stories so often they start to believe it is true."

"Stories can help us discover the truth as much as hide a lie," Will says.

"Yes," Chiyoh murmurs. "All sorrows can be borne if they are put into a story. You must be careful, though, that you remember what is real and what is fake."

"You speak as if you know some great secret, and want me to ask."

She doesn't answer. He rolls to his side and tucks an arm beneath his cheek. "What does this love of yours feel like?" he asks.

She sighs. "It is like hunger," she says. "A terrible, aching hunger, that is never sated with food or drink. An awareness when the subject of your love is in the room. An ache when they are not. It is the notion that you would never need to eat again, never breathe, never feel sunlight on your face, and feel perfectly content, because they feed you, and warm you, and fill your lungs with air."

Will thinks of the poet and his wife. He thinks of his own stomach, burning and set aflame.

"Then I say again," he rasps; "I have never been in love."

Chiyoh turns to look at him, her black eyes shining from her pale face. She looks like the manifestation of death, and smiles with so many teeth. "Suit yourself."


	5. Chapter 5

The next day's ride brings them to the caves. They divest the horses of all but the most necessary tack and pile it upon the wagons, so that the soldiers are only carrying their swords and shields, and Will his staff. He shows Chiyoh the entrance, hidden behind a thick cover of hanging vines and a cluster of rocks, and she nods to him, and they set about lighting torches, and head inside.

Will is not prepared for the emotions that rise in him when he steps into the caves. These were his home, as well-known to him as any rock and mushroom cluster and patter of rain, but they feel foreign to him all the same. Strange; he has not been parted from his home for more than a month, and yet feels like a stranger in this strange land.

The caves have small pinpricks of light, dotted into the ceiling by his people where they carved holes to allow sunlight, and they are enough for him to see by. He leads confidently on, only pausing occasionally to scent the air and remember which direction leads to fresh openings, and which leads to dead ends where his people have tended the harvest each season.

The floor is wet and the horses slip, and it is very slow going, but Will does not mind. The caves are an intimate space for him, warm and humid so his clothes cling and his hair grows damp and curling. The soldiers complain about the wet and he wants to laugh at them, for water is the giver of life, and how could they ever protest its presence?

They walk on, and camp a second night inside. Will can tell the horses do not like being underground, and so he goes off on his own, scavenging until he finds the place under a small drip of water from above where sweet herbs and plants grow that have been used to calm. He gathers them and mashes them together with the water, creating a thick paste.

Chiyoh finds him when he's done, and eyes him suspiciously. "What are you doing?" she demands.

Will shows her his stores. "We can give this to the horses," he says. She narrows her eyes. "It will keep them calm. Here." He takes some on his finger and licks it clean, grinning at her. "Perfectly safe, I assure you. We used to give it to the sheep when we would take them through here."

She presses her lips together, and gives him a nod, stepping back to let him pass. Will gives it to the stallions first, for they are the most spirited. The mares, next, and then the single gelding who is pulling one of the wagons with his brethren. The horses snort at him, lipping at his hands curiously, and Will smiles and pets over the gelding's cheek, shushing him as he licks the salve from Will's hand.

"Does this plant grow anywhere else, aside from these caves?" Chiyoh asks him, thumbing at one of the broad leaves.

Will shakes his head. "Not that I know of."

She nods, and bids some of the soldiers harvest as much of this as they can. "We will take it to the palace doctor. I'm sure there are uses for it, and he may begin to grow some himself."

Will nods. "I will say this; never mix it with lavender," he warns. "The effect is a deep lethargy. If too much of it is taken it can slow a man's heart to stopping completely. Even if not that, it will make him very sick and unable to move from his bed."

She blinks at him, and nods. "I will remember that, and warn the doctor of the same."

Will wipes his hands on his cloak. They forgo making fires within the caves, and Will is too tired and sore to attempt teaching them how to do so safely when the air is so wet and it's harder to let the smoke out, so their rations are dried jerky and apples, and they bed down for the night. Will shifts on the cold stone, sighing, his tired body easily remembering how it feels to sleep on cave floors. It's a welcome reminder, smelling the wet stone and adjusting his joints and stiff muscles to form with the earth.

He's exhausted, every part of him protesting the riding in ways he is not accustomed to. His thighs feel chafed and his ankles and knees curiously weak, the small of his back pulverized from accommodating the sway of his horse. He wonders if Hannibal will make him learn to ride horses properly, too, and huffs a laugh at the idea that his body will soon become unrecognizable under all this training and good food.

Thoughts of Hannibal make him sigh, a melancholy ache bubbling up in his chest again. Is it possible to miss the man already? The day seems incomplete without feeling the weight of his gaze, hearing his voice, without his taste in Will's mouth. He aches desperately for his master – simply to sit with him, and speak to him. He hopes Hannibal is happy with Franklyn's performance. He hopes he is not too bothered or bored by his courtiers.

He knows this is foolish. Hannibal lived for years before Will and if Will were to ever leave, he would live for years longer in perfect ease without him. Their friendship is not the only thing in Hannibal's life; his sun does not rise and fall, his world does not begin and end with Will.

He does not depend on Will, for anything. Somehow that is the worst ache of all.

They emerge from the caves on the fourth day, and Will smiles to himself as the soldiers make a show of stretching and bathing their faces in the sun. It does not bother him nearly so much, though he can appreciate the introduction of swift-moving air and fresh sunlight. Beyond them, the mountain bows down to the river, and Will can see the rising smoke of encampments colored with Hannibal's house.

He pauses, head tilting up, when he hears a bird call. He frowns, and holds his arm out to get Chiyoh's attention.

"What is it?" she asks.

He shushes her, and waits, until he hears the bird again. Then, he places two fingers to his mouth and lets out a loud, sharp whistle, that echoes in the little ravine and through the valley. Chiyoh hisses, and tugs on his arm threateningly.

"Will, what are you _doing_?" she demands again.

"Hush," he snaps. He whistles again, head tilted, and his eyes catch a small flutter of movement on a ledge, a little above them and to the right. "Tell your men to keep moving but be on their guard. We're not alone."

Chiyoh stiffens, her eyes narrowed. "A trap?" she asks.

"No," Will replies. He meets her eyes, and hopes she believes him when he says; "These people are not fighters. Let me go and speak to them."

She barks out a laugh. "If you think I'm letting you out of my sight then -."

"Then come with me," Will says, shrugging. He turns when he hears another scuffle, almost lost under the bluster of their horses and the creaks of the wagons, the groans of their men. He shrugs off his staff and sets it on the path. "Lay down your sword and come with me."

She eyes him, narrowed and shrewd, but divests herself of her sword and tells the men to keep moving. Will smiles, and leads her back into the cave, veering to the right where the way grows very narrow, water dripping coldly down on his hair and neck. He whistles again, softer this time, and lets it trail up at the end to a higher pitch.

After a moment, he hears one in answer. Starting high, ending low.

"My friend!" he calls.

"Are you a friend, he who walks with the red guard?" comes the answer.

"I am," Will says. "I come bearing no ill will, and bring no weapons."

"Why come you at all?"

"Let my company pass unharmed. That is all I ask."

There is a pause, and a small shift in the darkness. "Who is there with you?" the voice calls. The caves echo with it, and it is young, and Will cannot tell if it belongs to a boy or a girl.

"A friend of mine," Will replies, holding his hand up so Chiyoh doesn't speak. "No more a threat to you than I am."

The voice laughs.

"I ask you to let us pass untouched," Will calls again, crouching down low in the caves, Chiyoh behind him. "Through here, and back again. And no one will know you still live here."

"You and your friend will know," the voice says. "You wear the King's colors." Will presses his lips together, sighing through his nose.

"Can I offer you anything?" he asks.

There is another shift of weight, a clattering of rock as the presence moves. Will hears other voices, a soft whispering chorus. Three, maybe. Perhaps four people in total. He forces himself not to wonder if they are scraps of his own tribe, or belong to another group that lives in the Pass.

"You know what we will take," the voice says, and then there is a great flurry of movement, displaced rats running out at them. Will stands, careful not to knock his head on the ceiling, and takes Chiyoh by the arm, leading her out. He huffs in frustration, looking down at where the troupe is trundling happily along.

"What did that mean?" Chiyoh demands.

Will sighs, and finds her sword left behind. He hands it to her, and slings his staff along his back again. "The people of the Pass do not covet gold, or riches," he says. "Food would be the best offering for them. Can we spare some?"

Chiyoh huffs. "The supplies are for the front lines," she says.

"Then give them my rations," Will replies.

She stares at him, head tilted. "You are a strange man," she whispers, and Will smiles at her. They hurry down to the back of the wagons and Chiyoh portions out just enough food that would have fed Will for the remainder of the journey, and they walk back up to the caves and leave it at the entrance.

Will waits, and gives another sharp whistle. He smiles when, a moment later, there comes one in answer.

"They have accepted," he says, sighing in relief. He turns with Chiyoh and walks down to the front of the line. She is staring at him the whole time, as though he began speaking a language she has never heard. She shakes her head and sighs to herself, muttering something under her breath. Will is not troubled – he can go days without food, especially after being so well-fed under Hannibal's reign, and he is sure they are much hungrier than he is.

They reach the camp safely and divest themselves of their wagons and spare horses, and camp for the night. Will does not spend the night in Chiyoh's tent, this time, but with the dogs. He is a savage, the Commander says. A foreigner, and should sleep on the ground like one. He doesn't mind – in fact, the idea of him telling Hannibal this, of seeing his reaction, makes him laugh and keeps him warm. He playfully wrestles a scrap of meat from one of the dogs and eats it, supplementing his meal with worms and bugs he can find, and sleeps peacefully surrounded by the little pack of large animals. He thinks, with no small amount of delight, that he likely was the warmest of all the soldiers, in the end.

They pack up and ride back, and it rains the entire time, so they are sodden and shivering, freezing cold. Will aches for something to fill his belly and keep him warm, but he sacrificed that for safe passage, so he does not ask for anything. He can feel Chiyoh eyeing him as though expecting him to complain, but Will refuses to do so. He wants, more than anything, simply to be back at the castle. Not just for warm food, and a bath, and a roof over his head, but because he wants to see Hannibal.

Thoughts of his King plague him during the night, making him toss and turn and shiver, his mouth wet and aching, his body empty. Empty of food, of heat, of flesh. The creature in his chest howls and paws at the ground, panting and salivating; he wants, he wants to be home. He wants to be _home_.

When the spires of the castle come back into view, Will's breath catches in his throat, and he swallows harshly, resisting with all his might the urge to gallop down to the city, through the streets, and sprint up to Hannibal's rooms. Even if he knew how to ride a horse well enough to keep his seat, he doubts Chiyoh would appreciate him suddenly taking flight.

"Chiyoh," he whispers, and she looks at him. "I think I am a very capable liar."

She smiles at him, like she already knew this.

She reaches out and pats his knee. "We'll be home soon," she says. Will smiles to himself, and tries to calm the thrumming anticipation in his chest. It doesn't work.

Chiyoh is not merciful with him; she makes him help untack and groom the horses, putting them away. She has him assist with storing their gear and returning their weapons to the armory, and makes him wait while she writes up a report on the status of the front lines. She gives it to him, finally releasing him, and Will takes it with a grateful nod.

He goes to his rooms and changes his clothes, bathing as quickly as he can, for he does not want to assault his King with the scents of so long on the road. But he cannot tarry for long; his hands shake with anticipation, his stomach alight with desire. He wants to see Hannibal again, more than anything in the world.

It is almost time to bring the evening meal, but Will cannot possibly wait any longer. He sprints up to the King's chambers, knocks, and enters, and though he is sore and empty with hunger, though he is tired and thinks he would greatly benefit from a warm meal and a moment to catch his breath, he sees his King, and feels none of that.

Hannibal looks up in surprise, at his writing desk, and Will breathes out and goes to him, falling to his knees at Hannibal's feet. Hannibal makes another sound, this one more worried, and pets through his hair gently.

"Will," he breathes, and Will can smell himself on his master, and knows Franklyn did as he asked and continued to use the soap Will made for him. He lifts his head, and words fail him; all he can do is push himself to his feet and cup Hannibal's face, and kiss him ardently.

Hannibal answers immediately, dropping his quill so ink smears across the paper, and he rises, taking Will by the hair and shoving him against his dining table. Will moans softly, spreading his thighs for Hannibal to take the space between them, and clings to his King as tightly as he dares.

"Please," he gasps, when Hannibal allows him air. "Please, my Lord, let me -."

He paws at Hannibal's robes, pushes himself off the table and sinks to his knees again. Hannibal breathes out heavily, a snarl stuck in his chest, as Will unclothes his cock and takes him down to the hilt. Hannibal has bathed recently, and Will's own scent greets him, and it's a decadent thing to smell himself on his master like this. Will moans as Hannibal fills in his mouth, and works himself on Hannibal's cock smoothly, well-versed in this act of service now.

He gives no thought to his own pleasure, simply aches, deep in his chest, behind his ribs, for Hannibal to fill him and flood him. There's a blackness behind his vision that blinds him, drives him to take and keep taking it, as Hannibal grips his hair and rolls his hips, plugging Will's throat. Will lets his mouth grow wet with excess saliva, chokes himself on Hannibal's cock as Hannibal fucks his mouth.

And then Hannibal pulls out abruptly, and Will's breath escapes him in a raw, fierce whine. "My Lord," he whispers, "please -."

Hannibal hauls him upright and kisses him, putting him back on the table again. He shoves at Will's clothes and Will chokes on a gasp as Hannibal's big, warm hand wraps around his cock, stroking him with a punishing, _wonderful_ tightness. He tips his head back and Hannibal kisses wide and hot over his pulse, breathes in raggedly.

"I knew I wasn't imagining it," he growls. "Your scent is everywhere, Will. It drove me half mad. What did you _do_?"

Will can't speak, can only shiver and cling to Hannibal's strong shoulders. He ruts his forehead to Hannibal's cheek and kisses his neck, tense and molten to feel his blood pulsing so strongly.

Hannibal makes another rough sound, his beast snarling and showing its teeth. He spits on his fingers and pets them between Will's legs, to his tight and dry hole. He grips Will's thighs and kisses him hard enough to make Will feel blind all over again.

"My Lord, please," he begs, kissing, again and again, whatever he can reach. He knows what Hannibal is going to do, and his own inexperience means nothing to him anymore. He will take it, with blood and teeth if necessary. "Please, _yes_." Hannibal kisses him, and there is a moment of static when their eyes meet, and Will cups his nape and says what is far more honest than he anticipated; "I need you."

Hannibal smiles. His cheeks are painted with a pretty flush, his eyes black, hair mussed. He's beautiful, by all the gods, he's so beautiful. "You have me, Will," he says, and that feels far more honest than he anticipated, too.

He holds Will fast and swallows Will's moan as he forces himself in, wet with spit and parting Will's flesh with a single, purposeful thrust. Will grits his teeth and tries to keep the pain from his face, clinging to Hannibal with his mouth at his neck as Hannibal pushes as deep into him as he can. His legs tremble, flex beneath Hannibal's grip, and Hannibal snarls to his shoulder and holds him steady at the hips, keeping him pinned on the table as he warms himself in Will's body, relishes the tightness of his spasming, untried muscles.

The drag of his clothes on Will's chafed inner thighs stings, makes him pink and sensitive. He burns where Hannibal has forced him apart, spread wide around his thick cock and made to take so much so fast. Of course, he told Hannibal he did this often; Hannibal has no reason to think he needs to go slow.

He doesn't go slow. He uses Will with the same brutal need that he had the first time Will went to his knees for him, and Will groans, leaning back so he's splayed out over the table. Fitting, he thinks, that this is where he would first share his body. Fitting that this is where Hannibal ultimately devours him.

Hannibal bows over him, back arched like a beast, one hand in Will's hair as he kisses Will again. The drive of their bodies together is loud and harsh, and Will groans, friction against his own cock turning his stomach red-hot as coals, his spine liquid metal. Despite the pain, the roughness, it feels good simply because it's Hannibal inside him, on top of him. The creature in Will's head is purring so loudly.

He wraps his legs around Hannibal's hips and clings to him, dipping his spine so his hips are raised as he has been told women do, to allow a man to spill as deep inside them as possible. He aches for it, so powerfully it feels like new hunger, and his nails are harsh in Hannibal's back, heels pressed tight to his thighs, mouths crushed together as Hannibal fucks him with all the strength and prowess that earned him his legacy on the battlefield.

Hannibal breaks the kiss with a gasp as Will clenches around him, wraps both hands around Will's head and into his hair, forces his face to Hannibal's neck as he tucks his own to Will's. His thrusts slow, grow longer, teasing.

"Will," he breathes. A warning.

"_Please_," Will cries, mouthing at his neck. He is careful not to leave marks, but oh, the thought of sucking a bruise to Hannibal's neck, the thought of burying his teeth in his master's shoulder like he's any fine meal makes him shiver. "Please, _yes_, Hannibal -!"

Hannibal freezes, his rhythm stuttering, and he shoves in deep and comes with a rough, sated, familiar sound. Far more familiar to Will now than the rock bed of a cave or the smell of rainwater. Will sighs, relaxing, content to let Hannibal rut and flood him.

Hannibal pets through his hair, nuzzles his neck, heavy with lethargy. He breathes out like a stallion post-charge, and lifts up to his elbows. Will smiles at him, and leans up, catching his mouth in another long kiss.

The kiss breaks in another moan as Hannibal's hand wraps around Will's cock, stroking him slowly, so slowly, like he means to whittle Will down to nothing. Hannibal bites down above his clothes, at his shoulder, and grips his hair tightly, and Will writhes, crying out loudly as he finishes over his master's hand.

The spasms of his body and his frantic writhing force Hannibal out, and with him comes a heavy drip of his seed, staining the table and dripping onto the floor. Will sighs, and watches through low lashes as Hannibal's gaze rakes over him, his nostrils flared.

Then, slowly, he lifts his dirty hand to his nose, and breathes in. Will's stomach clenches all over again when he watches Hannibal lick himself clean.

He sits up when Hannibal is done, breathing heavily, flushed down to his collarbones as he eyes the mess Hannibal made of him. A sudden shameful wave crests upon him; gods, what was he thinking? Rushing to his King's rooms and throwing himself at Hannibal's feet like that. But how could he have done anything else?

He swallows harshly, and runs a hand through his wild hair. He opens his eyes as Hannibal cups his chin, and gives him a warm smile.

"I missed you too, Will," he says. And the shame meets a high wall, higher than Hannibal's castle tower, and ultimately recedes. Hannibal kisses his forehead, and gently cups his face, and Will feels more settled and at home that he thinks he ever could be, back in the caves, in the Pass.

This is his home now. Even when he's free, he will think of it as such.

He clears his throat. "I'll clean up and fetch your dinner," he says.

Hannibal smiles at him, and shakes his head. "No," he replies. "Bring meals for both of us, but do not wash." His eyes are black, and give Will a slow, appreciative up and down. Will flushes under the weight of his gaze, but nods obediently. His legs shake even worse than after training, and his heart may never calm, but he's light and sated and happy.

Hannibal kisses him one more time, chaste and lingering, and then Will leaves, having given him Chiyoh's report, and goes to fetch their meals.

He returns to find Hannibal reading the report Chiyoh wrote for him. He sets down their plates and Hannibal smiles at him, and Will takes a bite of Hannibal's food and a drink of his wine, before he returns to his own meal. His rations are far more plain, merely bread and a thick cut of dried meat, but he feels better simply for being at Hannibal's table.

He winces as he sits, his untried muscles and sore body reminding him of Hannibal's brutal use of him mere moments before. Hannibal notices, and tilts his head. "Are you alright?" he murmurs.

"Yes, my Lord," Will replies, clearing his throat and blushing deeply. "I'm not used to riding a horse. It's a different kind of soreness I am not accustomed to."

Hannibal hums. "I have heard that your people tend to flocks of sheep and goats, as well as hunting boar and bear. How did you corral so many animals, without horses?"

"We used dogs, my Lord," Will replies with a smile, taking a bite of bread. "My mother used to tell me that our first pack was tamed from wolves. That we found a mutual agreement with them; warm food and care in exchange for protection and help with the sheep."

Hannibal nods, accepting that, and goes back to reading. His brows rise, after a while. "You gave some natives your rations," he says.

Will nods, his shoulders tensing. "Yes. I heard them when we passed through the caves. I didn't want to start any trouble, though I knew they were far too few and posed no real threat – the caves are weak this time of year, and they could have put it in their minds to bring down the entire system on our heads simply for the victory of it. So I offered them my food in exchange for safe passage."

Hannibal frowns, his eyes dark. "So there are still natives in the Pass," he murmurs.

Will tenses further, his shoulders and back sore. He hears a darkness in Hannibal's words, a soft undercurrent of displeasure. When he doesn't answer, Hannibal fixes him with a sharp look. "Well?" he demands. "Are there?"

Will swallows, and nods.

"And you gave them food. You willingly assisted enemies of my people, who you just confessed would have harmed you, and my men, for walking through their lands." Will flinches from the anger in Hannibal's voice. He rubs a hand over the sore, welting mark he can feel growing on his shoulder from Hannibal's teeth, his stomach going tight and cold as Hannibal glares at him.

But he cannot deny it. "Yes."

Hannibal slaps the report down, watching Will with open aggravation. Will's shoulders hunch in, and he swallows harshly again. "I've made you unhappy."

"Very," Hannibal says darkly. "I should throw you in the stocks for this."

Will winces, bowing his head.

"My Lord," he whispers, hoarse and soft, "they are starving. Winter is upon us, and your soldiers have ravaged the country and taken so many of their people. Harvesters and fishermen, shepherds and hunters." He swallows, and adds; "Forgive me. I didn't think it would anger you so much."

"You gave them _your _rations, Will," Hannibal hisses. "What if you had starved, for the sake of strangers? Would you have also given them your weapons, or your cloak, and frozen to death, or been eaten by wolves because you could not defend yourself?"

Will's fingers curl around his knot of bread.

"My Lord," he whispers, "would you have been less angry with me if I'd stolen from your soldiers, to feed these people?"

Hannibal is silent; his silence feels stunned, like Will has just hooked him through the mouth. Saying outright the feeling that Hannibal, perhaps, could not identify himself.

"Yes," he finally admits, and Will looks at him, seeing his own surprise mirrored on Hannibal's face. He sighs, and looks away, and the cold coil of anxiety in Will's chest unravels slowly, a tentative mouse peeking her head up to see if winter has passed.

"That wouldn't have been right," Will says, braver in the wake of Hannibal's quiet admission. "I only have the power to sacrifice myself, not the comfort of your soldiers, or my people. I have no power to give their food away, only my own. So I did."

Hannibal rubs a hand over his face, and stands with a heavy, aggrieved sigh. Will rises with him, and Hannibal shakes his head and turns away.

"Leave me," he commands, and Will shivers, bowing his head. He takes his food and leaves, going down to the servants' quarters to eat the rest, though it now tastes like ash in his mouth. Hannibal's displeasure strikes him fiercely, and his mind is racing with ways to earn his King's favor back. He did not consider that Hannibal would be angry with him for what he'd done, and the motivations for it seem so strange.

The idea that Hannibal is angry, not because Will gave them food, but because he gave them _his _food, is not one he thought possible. He should be warmed by Hannibal's concern for him, but his master's icy anger plagues him and makes him feel heavy and bereft. It is worse, to feel the soreness between his legs and the leaking remnants of Hannibal's seed staining his clothes.

He marks down their additional tally in his book. Twenty-two for Hannibal, and fifteen for himself. He sighs, and finds that Franklyn has returned his vial to Will's chest, knowing he has returned. He swallows when he sees it – it is almost empty, and he will need more soon if he is to continue to plant his scent in his King's mind.

Though, and this thought brings with it the most fierce ache of all, he doesn't know if Hannibal would welcome it anymore. He is wretched over his own foolish decisions, but doesn't regret what he did. He would do it again, and again, because he felt it was the right thing to do.

He wonders if Hannibal knows it too. He can be angry – he's allowed to be angry. Will can only hope that Hannibal's affection for him wins out, in the end.

The night brings with it restless dreams; nightmares, of Hannibal turning from him, growing cold and savage against him, that he might cast Will aside and return him only to the barely-tolerated presence of a servant. It drives him to madness, and unable to sleep, he rises from his bed and takes his lantern, wandering the halls as the castle beds down for the night. He considers going to the library, but does not think the books inside will bring him adequate distraction.

He finds himself, unintentionally, in the same wing of the castle where Mischa Lecter's portrait hangs. He eyes it again, admiring the youthful light in her eyes, and the wayward mess of her hair. If this is Hannibal's sister, he wonders how long ago this was painted. He has heard no mention of Hannibal's relatives aside from his aunt, the lady Bedelia. She must have died several years ago, for this wing of the castle to have fallen into such staleness.

Curiosity compels him to open the door. He wants to see what is inside. It is foolish – if Hannibal is already angry with him he may be blind with rage if he learns Will encroached on this secret place. He may be, abruptly, driven to such anger that he strikes Will, or has him lashed in the courtyard. Might even, Will imagines, put him to death.

And yet.

The door itself is not painted with time and rust. It looks clean. He presses his lips together, breathes in and curses his own insatiably curious nature, and tests the handle. It moves silently, oiled and well-used, and he frowns, and carefully pushes the door open, and steps inside.

The room is small, curtains draped thick on the window to keep out the light of the sun and the moon. The air smells of sweat and fragrant perfume. It is barrenly decorated, but he can tell at one point it was used often. There is a large wardrobe in the corner of the room, the door of it hanging slightly open to reveal shiny embroidery and fine fabrics of dresses. There is a table holding an intricately carved wooden likeness of the castle, complete with little figurines scattered about.

There is a bed, cloaked in translucent silks, soft pinks under Will's lantern light. He can peer through them, and sees that the bed is occupied.

Shivering in the cold of the room, he closes the door behind him, and steps forward. There is a girl in the bed, and he parts the curtains to reveal her. It is Mischa, he knows this immediately, from her black hair to her elfin features. She is older than the painting, encroaching her late teens if Will were to guess, though she is so small and sickly it's impossible to figure out her age perfectly.

She stirs at the introduction of his light, and Will lowers it so he does not blind her. Her eyes move behind her lids, and she looks so pale and gaunt, weathered away to almost nothingness. She sighs, her chest rattling with a dry exhale.

"Hannibal?" she whispers. "Doctor?"

Will swallows. "Forgive me, my Lady. I didn't mean to wake you."

Mischa's brow creases, and her eyes flutter open, so large and black in the darkness. Will thinks she has probably been given opium to help her sleep. The scent stuck in the bed is rich with fever, her hair plastered to her face in little wisps. She breathes in again and turns to look at him, blinking once, slowly.

"Who are you?" she whispers, and then coughs harshly. Will immediately sets his lantern down and cups her face, petting her hair back, and lifts her so that she is not lying flat, and her lungs can clear more easily. A few drops of spit fly from her mouth and he wipes them away tenderly.

"My name is Will," he murmurs. "I serve the King."

She frowns at him. "Will," she says. "Water."

Will nods. There is a pitcher by her bedside with water, and Will frowns, sniffing at it. He recognizes the pungent scent of tea leaves and cinnamon and mint; things used to clear the lungs. He pours her a cup of it and hands it to her, but quickly realizes she is too weak to take it. He holds her gently and presses the cup to her lips, allowing her a small sip. She coughs immediately, chest rattling with strain, and groans.

"My Lady," he whispers. "How long have you been like this?"

She laughs, though it's weak and rasping. "You must be very new, not to know," she replies. "I am not sure. How many years has it been since I was sixteen?"

Oh, by the gods. Will swallows, and shakes his head. "Several, I imagine," he says. He gives her another drink, and then wipes her face with the sleeve of his robe. He sets the cup down. "Forgive me – I thought this place would be more like a tomb, or a shrine."

"I needn't be dead for it to be a shrine," Mischa replies with a smile that looks so much like the King's, Will's heart aches upon seeing it. "Did my brother bid you come here?"

"No," Will says. "I came on my own."

She hums. "Are you another doctor?"

Will shakes his head. Though; "Is it just a fever? A cough?"

She eyes him curiously. "Lift your light," she says, and Will obeys, and she tiredly paws at the high collar of her nightgown, pulling it down to reveal a dark splotching, red and yellow rash spread out all along her neck and down her shoulders. Will's eyes widen, and he leans in closer. The rash smells wet, like the floors of a cave. "It began on my birthday," she says, laughs, the sound dissolving into another series of rattling coughs. "Quite a present."

Will frowns. "My Lady, forgive my questions; are you able to sleep well at night?"

Mischa shakes her head. "I am given poppy milk to help me sleep."

"And sunlight?" Will asks, gesturing to the curtains. "Are you sensitive to it?"

"Not that I can recall, but I have not seen the sun in as long as I can remember."

Will's frown deepens. "What else are you given for medicine?" he asks, harsher than he means to.

She blinks at him. "Yarrow, for the fever. Mint to help my lungs stay clear. Some other things, I do not know their names."

"Is it given as a draught, or an ointment?"

She laughs. "So many questions!" she says, but she sounds delighted. She wears delight as her brother does. They smile the same way, toothy and warm in the eyes. "Are you sure you are not a doctor?"

"I hail from the Pass," he tells her. "My people are gifted with knowledge of potions and poisons."

She hums. "And are you here to poison me?"

"No, my Lady, I swear it." He tilts his head. "Are you able to eat anything?"

"No," she says. "I am weaned on milk and honey like a little lamb." She laughs.

Will frowns. This affliction seems familiar to him, but he was not a healer; he learned from his mother, but had no chance for application for that was not his duty in his tribe. Still, he feels like he has seen this before, somewhere, long ago.

He remembers Lord Chilton mentioning a fever in the far corners of the land, somewhere, and that he will journey there for supplies and tests. Will wonders if Hannibal would allow him to go with Lord Chilton – the man aggravates him greatly, but he may learn enough to combine with his own insight; anything that might help Mischa recover.

"Forgive me for waking you, my Lady," he says with another small bow. He helps her lie back down and tucks her in, correcting her clothes, and takes up his lantern.

She looks up at him. "Will, was it?" she murmurs.

"Yes, my Lady."

"You have the look of an honest man about you," she says, and reaches up with a tiny, shaking hand, gripping his own in a surprisingly strong grip for one of her stature and sickness. "I feel weaker than normal, as of late. Will you promise me that you will look after my brother, when I am gone? It weighs heavy on my heart to think that he will be left alone with no one to look out for him."

Will swallows, and kisses her hand. "I swear, my Lady," he vows. Says, in a confession intimate and sacred, knowing it will not leave the room; "I think I love the King more than any servant has ever loved their master."

She smiles. "I can smell it on you," she says with a giggle. Will flushes, shifting his weight – of course, it is not impossible that Mischa has her brother's sensitive nose. He thinks of Tobias, how he claimed women were even more sensitive to such things than men, and laughs to himself.

"My Lady," he murmurs, "I know we have just met, and I have nothing to give you but the promise of an honest man, but I think I can help you." She hums tiredly, her eyes closing. "I am going to try to help you."

She smiles, and pats his hand. "I believe you, Will," she says. Will nods, and lets her go, gently placing her hand back on the bed and fixing her curtain. He takes his lantern and leaves, sealing the door behind him, and sucks in a deep breath of the stale air on the outside of her door.

His mind is racing, and with new purpose, he rushes to the library. He goes to a rolodex and finds a section on medicines, herbs, and afflictions, and takes out no less than ten books covering the subjects. He brings his stacks to a table, opens the first, and starts to read.

Will is still reading by the time dawn comes. He is exhausted, his head heavy with reading and learning so much. Still, nothing quite describes the affliction for the princess, and he is frustrated and on edge as he returns the books and goes to fetch the morning meal for his King.

He knocks, and enters, leaving the tray on Hannibal's table and immediately going to redress his bed without a word. Hannibal is in the room, writing at his desk, and Will does not purposely ignore him, but he is so focused on his tasks and on all the books he was reading that he does not pay Hannibal any attention. He redresses Hannibal's bed and empties and cleans his chamber pot, brings up a fresh bucket of soapy water and kneels down to clean the stain Hannibal left on the floor and the table.

He freezes, when Hannibal's feet come into view, and breathes out. He doesn't know if Hannibal is still angry with him, and would do well not to goad him any further. A hand goes to his hair and Will closes his eyes, unbidden, arching his head up helplessly as Hannibal pets him.

Hannibal sighs. "Are you afraid of me, Will?" he asks.

Will blinks, and looks up. He replaces his sponge in the bucket, presses his lips together, and shakes his head. "No, my Lord," he replies.

"I didn't sleep well last night. I didn't like how we left things."

Will resists the urge to say that _Hannibal_ is the one who left things, quite suddenly. Will cannot stay and argue if his King bids him leave. He bites his tongue so he doesn't say it, but thinks Hannibal might be able to read the thoughts on his face anyway, for he is smiling in that way that does not move his mouth as much as shines in his eyes.

Will swallows. Being on his knees, Hannibal look at him like that, is familiar, instinctive. He feels hungry, suddenly, and exhausted. Hannibal tilts his head and thumbs below his eye where Will is sure there is a black stain of sleeplessness below them. "Did you sleep?"

"No, my Lord," Will replies. Lies; "I was in the library." Hannibal hums. "I found more by that same poet. He kept me up all night."

Hannibal hums again, and sighs through his nose. To Will's surprise, he crouches down, and cups Will's face. "Will," he breathes, "I do hope you will forgive me. It is a terrible thing for a King to allow his emotions to get the better of him, and I was surprised by how easily you saw right through me – that I was angry at the notion of your suffering, more than the thought of my enemies being fed from your hand."

Will lowers his eyes, and nods.

Hannibal kisses him, suddenly, and Will shivers, closing his eyes and surrendering to it. An animal nervousness still grips him, wary of Hannibal's wrath and on edge from losing so much sleep, but the easiest and simplest way to appease his master would be to give his body, and Will can certainly do that. He rubs his hands dry on his own clothes and pushes himself close to Hannibal, wrapping his arms around his shoulders as Hannibal kisses him.

Hannibal growls in answer, as Will parts his lips and allows him to taste. "You still smell like me," Hannibal says, breathless and wanting, and Will smiles. He forgot to bathe again, but he senses Hannibal doesn't mind in the slightest. "By all the gods, Will, how can you drive me to madness so easily?"

"Perhaps I bring out your need to conquer, my Lord," Will purrs, laughing when Hannibal kisses him in answer. He nips at Will's lower lip, hungry, and rises to his feet, gripping Will tightly so that he manages to stand as well.

"It is not just the act of invasion that makes a conqueror, Will," Hannibal says darkly. He noses at Will's neck and Will shivers, closing his eyes as heat curls up in his chest, his hands turn harsh, genuine, wanting in the wake of Hannibal's desire. His master's cock ruts against his thigh and Will moans, kissing Hannibal's shoulder. "One must hold the ground."

Will gasps, as he's turned and pressed over the edge of the table. Hannibal's breakfast tray and the fireplace and the shining wood is all he can see, until Hannibal wraps a hand in his hair and pulls him up to his elbows, and Will groans, feeling teeth at his neck.

"Unmarked territory cannot be claimed," Hannibal says, planting the words to the sensitive skin behind Will's ear. He claws Will's hair from the spot and Will whimpers, swallowing when he feels Hannibal's other hand part his clothes, baring where he's spread and empty. "One must dig furrows. Plant markers."

Will sucks in a breath, eyes opening wide as Hannibal nudges the shoulder strap of his robe to one side, parts his jaws and sinks his teeth into Will's shoulder. He whines, pitiful and small, heat rushing down his spine as he feels Hannibal tugging at his own clothes, his thick cock rutting between Will's thighs.

Hannibal's hand cups his neck and Will moans, loudly, gripping the table as best he can. His hands are slick with sweat, slipping on the polished wood. He hears Hannibal wet his fingers and then rub over Will's hole, which is still tender and very sore. Still, he will show no pain, nothing but eagerness if that's what Hannibal wants.

Hannibal bites him again, higher on his neck and Will gasps, shocked as a strike of arousal runs through him. Hannibal huffs a laugh, sweet and wild with victory, and sucks at the skin, until flesh blooms and bruises beneath his teeth. Will flushes deeply, spreads his legs, arches his hips as Hannibal sinks two fingers into Will's mouth to get them wet and uses that slick as well to open him.

"My Lord," he breathes, when his mouth is free. "_Please_."

Hannibal's exhale is heavy, wet against Will's neck. He grips Will's hips to hold him steady and ruts his cock against Will's hole until it catches, and sinks in. It hurts, and Will cannot stop the forceful grunt he lets out as Hannibal fucks in, smooth and powerful, until his hips touch Will's ass and he cannot go any deeper.

He feels impossibly deep, in this position, Will's stomach bruised and tender from his master's cock. He whines, pawing at the table, through his own hair, as Hannibal growls and rolls his hips, ruts animal-like against him. His rim is sore and clings to him tightly and he whines as Hannibal paws at his thigh.

"A little wider with your stance," he commands, and Will obeys, sinking a little lower until his belly is against the table. Hannibal growls, and pulls back, fucking in hard enough that the table creaks beneath them. "That's it. That's good, Will."

The praise is welcome, and settles Will's pounding heart. He moans when Hannibal bites at his neck again, another powerful surge of heat rushing down his spine – and then Hannibal presses on his hips, angles him _just _so, and _oh_ – oh _gods_. There is a way Hannibal is moving, a tender spot on the inside of Will's belly that blooms with heat when Hannibal sinks into him. Will writhes helplessly, moaning loud, he can't help it, as Hannibal bares his teeth and lets out a pleased noise, and sets a rhythm.

He rears up and plants a hand between Will's shoulders, sliding up to the bruised back of his neck. He clamps tight and Will cries out, thighs trembling and knees struggling to lock as Hannibal keeps rutting against that place inside him. The creature in his chest is howling, thrashing at its bounds, eager to leap against Hannibal's own beast and roll together. He buries his teeth in his own knuckles, clenches his eyes tightly shut as Hannibal fucks him. His hips bruise against the edge of the table and he reaches down with his free hand, wrapping it around his cock and stroking tightly.

Hannibal stutters, begins to slow, and Will lets out a raw, ragged sound, unhinging his jaw to free his hand and reaching back to cling at Hannibal's thigh. "Keep going," he begs. "_Please_, please keep going. Don't stop."

The heat in his stomach is becoming unbearable, and he cries out as Hannibal obeys, fucking through his tense and spasming muscles; Will is sore but he likes it when his master is using him like this. Their bodies collide in loud rhythm, sweat darkening and dampening Will's hair. His breath has misted on the table, his cheeks feel red-hot.

And then suddenly it is so urgent he can't stop himself. "Harder," he demands through gritted teeth. Hannibal bows over him, grips his shoulders, fucks him so hard the table skates an inch. Will tosses his head and lifts his neck into Hannibal's mouth, groans as he bites down. His body spasms and he lifts to his toes; _deeper_, he needs it deeper. His hand quickens on his own cock. "_Harder_. My Lord, please, _please_ -."

Hannibal wraps a hand in his hair, tugs him to one side to bare more of his throat, and bites on the corner of his jaw. Will gasps, trembling, and Hannibal's hands are beneath him, dipping below his robes to tease at his nipples, to grip his smooth belly. He angles Will up higher, Will's legs tightening and drawing together.

He comes so hard that he rears up, but Hannibal is strong, slamming him back down and going still with a sated growl as Will spills heavy and wet over his own hand. He screams against his wrist, collapsing to the table with a punched-out breath. It blinds him for a brief moment, flings him into a place weightless and warm. He would float away if Hannibal wasn't weighing him down.

"_Hannibal_," he gasps, weak with relief. He cannot keep touching himself, and lets go, smearing his hand wet along the table. Hannibal's cock inside him is suddenly so much, too much, he can't bear it. He grits his teeth and whimpers, alight with pleasure as Hannibal fucks him.

Hannibal mouths at his sweaty neck, breathing in his scent, drunk on it. He wraps an arm around the top of Will's head as he did before, corralling him beneath his weight. He ruts in, growling softly, and Will swallows hard when he feels Hannibal's cock twitching, ricochets of pain from his sensitive rim lighting up his spine. Hannibal finishes with a grunt, kissing his neck warmly, and lingers in Will for a moment before he pulls out. Like before, a flood of seed follows him, dripping down Will's sensitive flesh and staining his thighs and the floor between his feet.

The sleepless night, the long ride, the emotional dips and waves catch up with him all in that moment, and Will breathes out harshly, forcing himself upright on shaking and exhausted limbs. Hannibal corrects their clothes, and turns Will with a hand at his chin. Will smiles weakly, and submits to another kiss, a lingering heat gathering in his belly as his inner beast curls up, purring and content.

Hannibal parts from the kiss, flushed and wild-eyed, and he smiles. "Will," he says, and in his name Will wants to hear an echo of his own affection; he wants Hannibal to think of him as part of his home. Wants Hannibal to want him as fiercely as Will does. He sighs and lets his forehead drop to Hannibal's shoulder, shivering when Hannibal pets through his hair.

Hannibal tuts, and laughs, and Will gives a tired hum, shivering when Hannibal thumbs over his neck. "It's a good thing the days are turning cold," he murmurs. "I left you thoroughly marked."

Another wave of heat pulses in Will's chest at the notion. Bearing Hannibal's marks is not an unwelcome idea. "Well," he says, "if anyone asks I can tell them I've begun courting someone. A fellow servant."

Hannibal hums. "A necessary falsehood, perhaps," he murmurs. "Though I don't think anyone would think a woman would bite you here."

"I'm not ashamed of my attraction to men," Will replies. Hannibal kisses his forehead, and releases him, pulling a chair out for Will to sit while he takes his place in front of his breakfast. "Is it outlawed, in your country?"

"Not as such," Hannibal says mildly. "Frowned upon. The King before me insisted that courtship without the chance of breeding is an affront to the gods."

Will laughs, his voice hoarse from his cries. "But he is not the King now."

"No," Hannibal agrees, smiling. He slices a bite of his breakfast, another thick ham steak, and holds it out to Will. Will takes it, and a sip of his wine, glad to have returned to that old habit, and pleased that Hannibal seems to be looking at him with the same affection he did when Will first returned to him. "It is one of the first laws I changed, when I took up my mantle. I believe people should be able to be with whomever pleases them most."

"I agree," Will says with a nod. He stifles a yawn and rubs his hands over his face, grimacing when he ends up smearing his own seed over his cheek. He stands on shaky limbs and goes back to cleaning, wiping down the floor and the table, and makes a simple pass between his own legs for good measure, though he can still feel his master leaking from him. The sensation warms him, and he wonders if he will ever be rid of the blush on his cheeks.

Hannibal is smiling, his dark mood from the night before completely gone, and Will is glad to see it go. He shifts his weight again, wincing, and Hannibal eyes him. "Still sore from riding?" he asks.

Will shakes his head. He swallows, and says; "Will you promise not to be angry with me?"

Hannibal blinks at him, tilting his head. "I cannot in good conscience promise that," he says, though his voice is kind. "I will, however, try not to let my emotions get the better of me this time. What is it?"

"I think I need more help when it comes to serving you, my Lord," Will murmurs. "I've never lain with a man like that, and perhaps if there is oil, or something I can use to stretch myself out, before, it will be easier."

Hannibal's hands go still. He frowns. "You told me you've been with men," he says.

Will nods. "I used my mouth and my hands, my Lord," he replies. A tremor of wariness runs through him, but Hannibal does not seem angry, just confused. "You're the first man I've taken like…that."

Hannibal is quiet a moment longer, and then he breathes out, and rubs a hand over his face. "Will," he says, sharp and scolding, and Will winces. "I wish you had told me."

"It's not unpleasant," Will says, wanting to reassure. "I can't fake my own pleasure, my Lord – I enjoy it. Hopefully just as much as you do," he adds with a weak smile. Hannibal's answering exhale is still so heavy. "I just think, perhaps, if there's something we can use to make it easier, I won't be as sore after. And I can do it more often."

"More often," Hannibal echoes.

Will nods, and his smile is wider this time. "You've awakened a rather impatient hunger in me, my Lord," he says, and, daring, he reaches out and takes Hannibal's hand. It is the hand he finished in, and he knows Hannibal can smell it. Hannibal's fingers curl around his, his nostrils flare as he breathes in, his eyes dark. "I simply want to be able to serve you, whichever part of me you desire most."

Hannibal swallows, looking uncharacteristically shaken. He smiles. "There are oils we can use," he says lightly. Will smiles and squeezes his hand. He sighs again. "I truly wish you had told me, though, Will – I would have been less rough with you, the first time."

Will laughs. "My Lord, am I not the one who rushed to your room and threw myself at your feet?" Hannibal's eyes shine, and he gives an acquiescing nod. "I regret nothing of what I have done, or what you have done to me. I would happily submit to it two times, three times, a hundred times a day."

Hannibal huffs a laugh. "I believe you," he replies. "I daresay our poet friend's passion has taken you quite savagely."

Will smiles, and bites back the desire to confess that yes, it has. In more ways than one. He releases Hannibal's hand, mindful of the time. He is due to train with Rinaldo soon. Hannibal finishes his meal and Will gathers it, and leaves with Hannibal's kiss warm and lingering on his forehead.


	6. Chapter 6

Rinaldo scowls at him as he approaches. "You're late," he says in greeting.

Will bows his head. "Forgive me," he replies. Rinaldo huffs, and hands him a sword. Will takes it, and freezes when he feels the tip of Rinaldo's practice weapon at his chin. He makes Will straighten, and forces his chin up and to one side, baring the fresh marks on his neck.

His glower deepens. "Who laid those?" he demands.

"A serving girl," Will replies. The lie tastes like bitter lemons on his tongue.

Rinaldo huffs. "You were late because of a girl?" he says, and spits on the ground. "Passion makes a man weak, boy. You would do well to remember that."

Will nods, swallowing back his retort. Passion does not make a man weak, he wants to say; it fills him with fire. Makes him invincible. It is the same thing that drives a man to the battlefield. He bites his tongue so he does not say the words.

"If you are late because of a tryst again I will tell the King," Rinaldo threatens, and it takes all of Will's self-control not to laugh at him.

"I understand," Will replies. He takes his ready stance. His sleepless nights, his fatigue, and his sore thighs and stomach make it easy for Rinaldo to best him, again and again, and he can tell Rinaldo blames his mystery lover for Will's distraction. Will leaves with far more bruises, far more exhausted. His cot is a welcome respite.

Will wakes to the noon bell, and rushes to his feet. He pauses only long enough to mark another tally for himself and Hannibal before he brings the King his luncheon meal. Hannibal is not there, so Will takes his bite and his sip of wine, and leaves. Without Hannibal or any of his duties calling to him, he goes back to the library, pausing when he sees the door to the council chambers is open. Hannibal has invited him there often enough that Will knows he would be welcome, but the marks on his neck make him hesitate. He does not need the lady Bedelia or any of Hannibal's advisors seeing them and growing suspicious.

Still, he needs to speak with the doctor, and perhaps ask Hannibal if he can accompany the man on his trip to the towns to gather herbs. He sighs, and combs his hair down his neck as far as it will reach, and hoists his robes up as high as he can to cover where he can feel the worst of the marks smarting his skin.

He climbs the stairs and enters the chamber, bowing his head in greeting when he sees the gathered council. Hannibal smiles at him, and Will goes to the jug of wine by the window, circling the table to be sure everyone has a full cup.

Mason gives him another lecherous grin, too wide, not at all friendly. Will fills his cup to the brim and manages to avoid his grabbing hands.

"So that decides it," Hannibal says, once their cups are full and Will has taken his place by the window again. "Lord Chilton, you will go with a company of ten men to the plagued villages and find out all that you can. You have my permission to bring those strong enough to make the journey back to the castle infirmary for tests and experiments."

"Thank you, my Lord," Chilton replies. "I will leave at dawn."

Hannibal nods. "Is there anything else?" he asks, and receives no further issues in answer. "Very well. You are all dismissed. Have a good day, ladies and gentlemen."

They nod, and stand, and file out. "My Lord," Will says quietly, catching his attention. Hannibal pauses, just long enough for Chiyoh to close the door behind them, and Will steps close. "I would like a word, if you have the time."

Hannibal nods, brow creased.

"I was hoping to ask your permission to accompany Lord Chilton to the plagued villages," Will says. Hannibal blinks at him, head tilted in surprise. "My people were gifted healers, and I know it is not in my duties to care for the sick, but I would like to learn. I've been reading about various afflictions and, by your grace, would like your permission to go."

Hannibal's lips purse, and turn down at the corners. He seems to give it some consideration, before he sighs, and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Will, but no, you may not go. If the condition proves contagious, I cannot risk you getting sick, or passing it along to any of your fellow servants or myself. Lord Chilton is trained on how to avoid infecting himself, and you are not."

Will sighs inwardly. He bows his head in acceptance. "I understand. I felt remiss if I did not ask."

"Why this sudden interest in afflictions and plagues?" Hannibal asks curiously, returning to the table to gather the charters and roll up a few scrolls, creating a pile for them all.

"Curiosity," Will lies.

Hannibal smiles at him, knowing and fond. "Simply curiosity?" he asks.

Will lifts his shoulders in a shrug.

Hannibal hums, and abandons his stack, approaching Will. Will lifts his chin, smiling and shivering as Hannibal pulls lightly at the shoulder of his robe, baring the marks he left that morning. Hannibal's eyes grow dark, his lips parting like he wants to take another bite. Will would let him. He still feels wet and open, and his goal will not come any closer by playing coy.

He lifts his eyes, meeting Hannibal's, and takes his hand. He raises it, kissing Hannibal's palm, and then flattens it to his neck, over the marks. Hannibal's pupils flare out wide, his tongue wetting his lips, and Will allows his lashes to go low, his cheeks to color, his breath to grow shaky with desire.

Hannibal slides his hand up Will's face, cupping his jaw, his cheek, back to his ear, and then threading through his hair. "Kneel," he commands, and Will swallows and sinks to his knees immediately. He leans in to pull Hannibal's clothes back, but the hand in his hair tightens and jerks him back. Hannibal meets his eyes, breathing harshly as Will, and undoes the fastenings himself, gathering and freeing his cock from his clothes. Will can smell his seed, here, though he's cleaner than Will imagines he should be had he not bathed.

He parts his lips in readiness, and whines when his master feeds him. His cheeks hollow, lips forming a tight seal. Hannibal groans, tipping his head back, his jaw going lax with pleasure as Will sucks him, tonguing the head of his cock until it fills so much he cannot reach, and chokes on the thick length in his mouth, clogging his throat.

He wraps his hands around the backs of Hannibal's thighs, encouraging him to thrust and use Will's mouth – and Hannibal does, sinking in with forceful, punishing thrusts, that bring tears to Will's eyes and stop his soft moans before he can give them air to live. He pets up Hannibal's hips, flattens a hand on his stomach, fingers curling, his other hand gripping Hannibal's ass and using the leverage to force himself to take more.

Hannibal lets out a rough, impatient sound, his cock twitching in Will's mouth. "You called it hunger," he breathes. He leans forward, bracing himself on the windowsill, cups Will's skull and fucks him harshly. "You have poisoned me with it, Will – there is something in me that eats and eats of you and is never full."

Will groans, closing his eyes, letting his jaw go lax, his mouth messy as Hannibal uses him. He understands exactly what Hannibal means. He wishes he could say so, but all he can do is grip and take and moan around his mouthful.

Hannibal grunts, going still, and floods Will's mouth, making him choke. Hannibal growls low, fingers twisting in Will's hair as he lets Will's spasming throat constrict and tighten around his cock, and then he withdraws, and Will coughs, wiping a hand over his mouth. He looks up at his master and doesn't know what to call the emotion he sees there.

He swallows, as Hannibal's hands turn gentle on his face. Hannibal crouches down and kisses him, uncaring for the taste, and Will closes his eyes and hopes that, when he is old and grey and far from here, memories like this linger in him, and it is the last thing he forgets.

"Passion can only be cured by one thing, my Lord," he murmurs.

"Oh?" Hannibal says. He sounds breathless.

Will nods, and smiles. "Affection," he replies. "It lingers, when passion dies. Kindness endures. Friendship does not devour, when all else fails."

Hannibal stares at him, eyes black and giving away nothing, and then he smiles. "How lucky I am, then, to have such a kind and affectionate friend," he says gently. He kisses Will's forehead and helps him to his feet, correcting his clothes. He gives Will wine and Will drinks it, gasping at the crispness of the drink. Hannibal dismisses him, citing he needs to remain a while longer, and Will bows his head with a promise to see him at the evening meal.

He leaves the room, his mouth tender and swollen and his head on fire, and freezes when he sees Freddie lingering in the library halls. Her eyes narrow on him, and rake down to his neck. She lifts a brow, lifts her chin.

Will eyes her, but she turns and leaves before he can ask her what she's thinking. Still, a fissure of worry creeps up in the back of his head, for Freddie is the lady Bedelia's handmaiden, and Will does not want to think about what she might tell Hannibal's aunt. What insidious thoughts she might whisper.

And he does not want to think about the fact that they would not be lies, at all.

In the afternoon, Will goes to the markets, and finds Tobias smoking outside his shop. He smiles at Will widely, and greets him with a salute of the tip of his pipe hose. "My friend! How goes the war of your love?"

"Well-fought," Will replies. "Thanks to you, my friend."

Tobias grins at him, and sucks on the end of his hose, blowing another plume of sweet-smelling smoke out into the air. The smoke tastes like limes, and rosewater, and something close to mint. It's a pungent and pleasant scent.

"Are you here to buy more?" he asks.

"Yes, but also some other quest bids me visit you. I seek advice, but a solution, if you have it."

Tobias blinks at him, and gestures for Will to sit. He offers the pipe, as he did before, and Will hesitates, but takes it. The hose is long, snakes around the tall glass bowl and metal neck of it. He tentatively wraps his lips around the tip of the hose, breathing in as the coals flare with fresh air. The scent and smoke fills his mouth and he coughs when he tries to swallow it, handing it back.

Tobias laughs. "You must breathe it in deeply, my friend," he says, and Will huffs a laugh, touching his tender mouth. The smoke makes his teeth feel like they do not belong to him, and he runs his tongue along them to ensure they are all still there. "Now what can I help you with?"

"My love has a sister, who is very sick. I know your primary trade is soaps, but do you have anything I can use, to put in her bathwater or some such thing, that will help her breathe easier?"

Tobias frowns. "Tell me, my friend, does she cough?"

Will nods.

"And when you hear it, is it a wet cough, or a dry one?" Will tilts his head.

"Dry," he hazards, thinking of the rattling in Mischa's chest.

"Ah, then it is not something that will be cured through soaps, or breathing!" Tobias tells him. He gestures with his pipe towards the open markets. "If it was, you need only walk her through there! Does she have anything other than a cough?"

Will blinks, and nods. "A rash," he says. "And a fever. And sickness in her stomach so she cannot keep any food down, and is only drinking milk and honey."

Tobias frowns at him. "When last did you try to feed her?" he asks. Will shrugs helplessly. "Oh, no, no, my friend! You must feed her relentlessly. With fresh fruits, and vegetables. Cook nothing, feed it to her raw."

Will frowns.

"The gods have blessed us with healing essence in all things they grow themselves," Tobias tells him with another smile. He takes another long pull from the pipe, sucking the gathering smoke from the glass bowl, and breathes it out through his nose, his teeth momentarily obscured for the thickness of the plume. "Yarrow and ginger and cloves will work for the fever. Come." Tobias stands, and gestures for him to follow into his shop. Will goes, again assaulted by all the scents of Tobias' soaps and potions, and Tobias leads him to one of the walls stacked with dry herbs.

Will swallows, and says; "I did not bring much money with me, my friend. But tell me how much it would take to buy whatever you will give me, and I will return for it when I am able." For he did not get any allowance while out with Chiyoh, and what he does have is still in his chest beside his bed. He only brought the same three-fifty that purchased him his last vial.

Tobias hums thoughtfully, tapping his lower lip as he eyes his stock. "I can give you enough to make several days' worth of salves and teas for her," he says. "It will cost you two hundred in total, my friend."

"I will take it," Will says, smiling widely. "Thank you. Your help is a rare and treasured gift."

"I will need some time to prepare it," Tobias says apologetically. "Some of these need to be made into pastes, so you can add them to water, or pruned so as not to become poisonous. I can explain it all to you when it is ready, when you return. Are you able to come tomorrow?"

"Yes, I think so," Will replies. "If not, then the next day, or the next. But I will come." He hands over the two hundred and Tobias smiles at him, and begins to gather his plants, ushering Will out and sending him on his way. He sits back down at his pipe and takes out a pair of small scissors, humming to himself with his hose sticking out of the corner of his mouth, happily smoking and pruning away.

What an odd fellow. Will quite likes him.

He leaves the alley and almost collides with Freddie. He apologizes to her, and she fixes him with a sharp look. "What are you doing here?" she demands.

Will lifts a brow. "Whatever I'd like," he replies coolly. "I am not so tightly bound that I must be at the King's beck and call all the livelong day."

"Yes, I saw just how much _liberty_ you have," she hisses. Her eyes drop to Will's neck again and Will forces himself not to adjust his clothes, for he knows the marks are hidden well enough, and to try and hide them further would make her more suspicious. She smiles at him, sharp and wide and not at all friendly. "I didn't think the King preferred the company of men, but I suppose any open hole is good enough when it's so readily available."

Will's fists clench at his side. They are in public, after all, and he cannot possibly defame the King. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he says as calmly as he's able. He smiles. "Unless you're projecting, Freddie. Does the lady Bedelia call you to her bedchamber at night and command you use your mouth on her?"

Freddie's cheeks color, her eyes bright with outrage. "How _dare _you."

"Only someone suffering so would be that concerned over what the King does to his own servants. If you are being abused, I can help you. If you are not, then you can assume I am not either, and we can continue on our merry way."

Her eyes narrow. "Do not think you're so clever," she says haughtily, raising her chin. "I know what the people of the Pass are like. You would bed a boar if it would keep you warm at night."

"Careful," Will says, unable to keep the growl from his voice. She smirks, pleased to have ruffled him, and lifts her brows in another challenging look. Will rolls his eyes, and dismisses her with a wave of his hand. "Gossip all you like. I don't care enough about your opinion one way or the other. Have a good day."

She huffs, offended, but Will has no time for her. He leaves her in the middle of the markets, eyeing the sun. There is still another hour or so before he must start heading back, and so he goes to the fighting pits again. The same man greets him, with the bullwhip and the mean looking sword. He does not ask Will's name or mission again, but gestures for him to go inside and speak to whomever he'd like.

He finds Francis, Randall, and Jack all gathered near the edge of the arena, practicing with throwing spears to targets painted on bales of hay. He watches, grinning, as Randall misses his own target so badly, he ends up clipping Francis'.

"A miss so bad it was a hit!" he calls, and Randall turns to him, grinning wide in greeting. They clasp forearms, and Francis huffs a laugh and goes to retrieve their buried spears. "Are you champions yet, my brothers?"

"We have passed our assessments, so may begin fighting as soon as we have earned patronage," Jack tells him, and slaps a hand on Will's shoulder hard enough to make him wince. Unsteady as the rest of his body is, he crumbles rather embarrassingly easily, and Jack's eyes widen when Will's robes fall, revealing his neck. "Oh! What have we here?"

Will flushes, and pulls his clothes back into place, but the damage has already been done. "Are those done by the King?" Randall asks, his eyes wide.

"I don't trust your wagging tongues enough to say," Will replies, grinning when Francis laughs, having returned to them all. "I have told some I've found a woman to please; others that I am untouched. I tell so many half-truths these days."

"You can be honest with us," Jack says, but his smile says he already has made up his mind. Will rolls his eyes. "How many victories?"

"You are a lecherous old man, and I will not entertain you with tales of my nights," Will tells him, huffing when Jack laughs and claps him on the back again. "And stop hitting me, you big brute. I will be bruised all over between you and my training."

"Training?" Randall asks.

"Yes. The King is trying to make a swordsman out of me. It's slow going."

"Hah! You should have joined us then," Francis teases. "But you are already far ahead of us. I would suck the King's cock a hundred times if it earned me freedom, I will admit it."

"I'll tell him that," Will promises, and Francis laughs again. He smiles. "Well, brothers, I must return to the castle. Good luck, and may you receive patrons soon. I have not forgotten our wager."

"Farewell, brother," Randall says, and clasps Will's forearm again. Then Francis, then Jack. Will leaves, pulling his cloak tightly around his body and up high on his neck, and hurries back up to the castle. He thinks of the herbs Tobias named, and goes to the library to research them.

Yarrow, ginger, cloves. All good for fever. He thinks the root Tobias was pruning as he left most closely resembles onion leaves, and he frowns as he reads that it is used to treat inflamed lungs. It frustrates him to know so little of the lady Mischa's condition, and he wishes that Hannibal would have let him go with Lord Chilton.

The dinner bell chimes, and Will goes to the kitchens to fetch his master's meal. He brings it up, but Hannibal is not there, so he leaves the tray at the table and takes his vial of his own scent, lightly coating two drops on his fingers, and straightens the King's bedsheets, smiling to himself at the knowledge that, when Hannibal returns, he will smell Will on his bed.

Will goes back to the library, content to sit and read. He wants to be sure, if Hannibal comes to him, that he is easy to find.

Hannibal does not come for him, and Will swallows back his disappointment as the night draws on. He's sleepy and tired, but he gathers his lantern and silently prowls to the lady Mischa's room. He enters, and smiles when she stirs again.

"Is that my new doctor?" she asks. Weak though she is, her voice is playful and light.

Will smiles at her, drawing back her curtain, and kneels by her bed. "Good evening, my Lady," he whispers. She rolls over in her bed, the shift of her clothes and bedding stirring up the scents of an unwashed, sickly body. Will sighs, and pets her hand when she reaches for him. "How are you feeling?"

"The same," she replies.

"I wanted to ask you some more questions, if I may."

"I think the doctor would be able to answer better than I could," she says, but she nods anyway.

Will smiles. "The doctor and I are not friendly," he replies. "And I would rather hear the answers from you."

"Ask."

"When was the last time you ate solid food?"

"Before I got sick," she replies. "I celebrated my birthday and by the morning I was so sickly, a fever raged through me and I tossed and turned, and the rash came soon after. The doctor said it was in reaction to the medicine, and it's true I did not worsen, but I haven't improved since."

Will sighs. He cannot imagine being so tired and bedridden for so long. "Milk and honey for years," he murmurs.

She nods. "And the teas, sometimes. Water when I am able, but no wine."

Will smiles. "Would you like some wine?"

She blinks, her dark eyes brightening with mischief. "Yes," she says with a playful smile. Will grins at her, and rises. He hurries from her room and pilfers some of Hannibal's store, taking a drink himself out of habit. He returns to her and helps her sit, and feeds her some of the wine. She sips at it, gasping, and closes her eyes. "Do not make fun of me, but I think this is the best thing I've tasted in years."

"I'll hide a jug of it in your room," Will promises.

"You'll get in trouble," she protests, but she is smiling.

"For helping my dear King's sister feel a little better? Maybe, but it would be worth it," Will replies warmly. She sighs, and takes another drink. She doesn't cough, which Will is glad for. "Does the King visit you often?"

"He tries," she says, sounding wistful. "He and I were inseparable when I was young. When I got sick, he was by my bedside day and night. But he is the King, and has responsibilities beyond this room." She sighs again. "Now I am lucky to see my brother once a week, but I am not angry with him. I understand."

Will nods. The world cannot begin and end on one person, even someone as dearly loved as the King's sister.

She sips again, and gives Will a thin smile. "Are you still set on the course of helping me, Will?" she asks.

"Yes, my Lady," Will replies. "I have spent much of my free time in the library, researching what may help you. I wanted to go with the doctor to study with him, but the King refused. For good reason, though it pains my heart to think I might have learned something there that would help you."

"The doctor is good at what he does," Mischa replies. "He administers my medicine daily. I'm sure if there is something to be found, he will find it."

Will doesn't think so, for there are things that even a castle doctor may not know of, but he resists the urge to say so. She looks at him, and laughs. "You talk with your eyes," she teases. "Not a fan of Lord Chilton?"

"The King trusts his abilities," Will replies, tactful.

She laughs again. "There you go, talking with your eyes again," she says warmly. Will blushes, and looks away. "You truly care for my brother, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"No. You know what I mean."

Will swallows, and sighs. "Before coming here, I did not know what it felt like to care for someone so deeply," he admits.

"Don't fret, Will," she says, and pats his hand. Color is returning to her pale cheeks, and she looks more alert and brighter than Will imagines she has been in a while. "My brother speaks with his eyes, too. He visited with me this very night." Will smiles, understanding now why Hannibal was not at dinner, and didn't come find him. "He told me about you. I think he cares for you very deeply as well."

"Did you tell him I have been visiting you?" Will asks, worried that Hannibal may be angry with him for invading this private place.

She grins, and shakes her head, and she suddenly looks like the little version of herself that is painted outside the door. "I think it'll be our little secret, for now," she says, and taps her nose. "I appreciate our little talks, and -." She pauses, and looks down at her wine. "Gods above, I think this is the longest I have gone without coughing in years!"

"The drunkard's cure," Will teases. "I will bring you enough wine to make you a goddess."

Mischa laughs. Despite her better temper, Will can tell she is very tired. He takes her wine cup from her and sets it on the bedside table, and tucks her in. Before he can stop himself, and yet knowing it feels right to do it, he kisses her forehead as he pulls the blankets up high on her body.

"Sleep well, my Lady," he murmurs.

"Good night, Will," she replies, and falls asleep as Will closes the door behind him.

The days pass swiftly again as winter sets her claws into the land. The doctor Chilton leaves, with Alana and his company of soldiers. Will watches him go, and refuses to show his displeasure at being left behind. He gathers his haul from Tobias, with instructions on how to administer each herb and potion. He reads, and when he has read all there is to read, he sneaks into Chilton's rooms and snoops around his herbs, his books, his notes.

Hannibal is gentler with him, and seems wary of using the space between Will's thighs for his pleasure again. Will drinks his master down and chases it with wine in the mornings, before he goes to train. Hannibal begins bringing him to meetings with the traders and merchants who have settled for the winter, the roads too hazardous to traverse until spring. Hannibal makes Will note their names, their trade, their location should the castle have need of them. Will attends his council meetings and, if Hannibal is there for the evening meal, he sinks to his knees and takes him in his mouth again before they part ways for the night.

Will manages to save up enough to buy a larger vial of his scented soap, and coats his hands with it when he makes the King's bed, adds it to his bathwater, but still, Hannibal does not become so mad with passion as to take him like a woman again. The gaps between their tallies grows larger, and Will is glad to see it, although he is beginning to feel frustrated because he likes feeling Hannibal inside him, he had grown ravenous for it, and his dreams are haunted with sensations of wetness and warmth; Hannibal, his tongue or fingers inside Will, stretching him out. Hannibal, his hands in Will's nape and on his hips and around his cock as he forcefully fucks him.

The bruises fade from his neck, and Will's tally for his master rises to fifty-seven. He does not serve Hannibal in this way every day, but the number is rising with impressive and constant speed.

He uses the free hours of his day to research the herbs Tobias gave him, and spends his nights with Mischa. She seems to be improving rapidly under his care – he feeds her wine, crushes herbs to mix with water into a paste and smooths it over her forehead and beneath her nose to clear her lungs. She stops coughing. He starts bringing her his own evening meal, helping her eat it piece by piece. He doesn't know who is bringing her milk and medicine in Chilton's absence, but she tells him she has stopped needing the milk, now that she can eat solid foods. Will feeds her only fresh food as Tobias recommended, once he is able to acquire it. He steals away pieces of Hannibal's meals and replaces them with his own food – Hannibal doesn't seem to notice the introduction of plainer food. Perhaps this is common during the winter.

It is difficult, but so rewarding, the first time he visits Mischa and sees her alert and awake, with a candle burning by her bed. She greets him with a happy smile, and claps her hands together. "Oh, Will! A favor, if you would. Please open the curtains. I have desired to see the moon for so long."

"You must be careful not to get cold," Will tells her. He pulls back the curtains separating her windowpane from the room, smiling when the full moon shines down upon them. She sighs, and Will turns to see her shining like a star, still very pale but undoubtedly healthier.

"My brother has commented on my improvement," Mischa tells him, as Will sets about pouring her wine and setting his offering of food on a plate. Today, there is broccoli and apples, neatly sliced, and a collection of berries with a honey drizzle. "It heartens him to see it. I am fit to burst; I want to tell him all that you have done for me."

"No," Will says, and smiles, sitting on her bed and settling her plate on her lap. "I did not do this to seek reward. I did it because you are his sister, and because of that, I love you dearly. I would call any man who could help, but refused to, a cruel and mangey animal."

Mischa smiles at him, eating her apples. By the gods, it warms Will to see her eating so readily. She has told him of no nausea, and her fever broke many nights ago. Whatever was ailing her, she seems to be flourishing under his care, and Will wonders just how much of it is him, and how much of it is the absence of Chilton.

"How is your rash?" he asks her.

"Oh! I haven't checked," she replies, and sets her meal down, pulling at the collar of her dress. She bares her shoulder, and Will leans in to check it. Her skin is still red, but the rash itself looks much less angry, and smells drier. He hopes that means it is healing. "Well?"

"It looks much better," he tells her kindly, and smiles when she corrects her dress and continues to eat. She has a ravenous appetite, but Will cannot fault her for that. After so long only drinking milk and honey, he imagines her stomach is empty and cavernous.

He stands, and leaves to grab hot water from the kitchens, and returns with another collection of herbs Tobias sold him, as well as some he pilfered from Chilton's stores. He rips the leaves apart and puts them in the water, placing them under her bed. The scents of cinnamon and cloves fill the air.

"What have you been telling the King, in response to all I've done, then?" he asks.

"I told him that I am simply feeling better," she replies. "I think he is too relieved to look too closely. And now I can claim to have opened my own curtains, or summoned a servant to fetch water and wine for me." She laughs. She hasn't coughed in weeks, since Will started giving her wine. "Oh, Will, I swear, I feel reborn! And though you protest, when I am well enough to return to court, I will call you my favorite friend and tell my brother everything you have done for me."

Will swallows, sighing through his nose, and wonders if he will still be here when that happens. The longer he stays here, the more he considers this place home, but truly it could not possibly be his home. He would not be happy with the life of a servant forever, no matter how dearly he is loved by the King and his sister.

"Just focus on recovering," he says, and she nods. She finishes her meal and Will stands, kissing her forehead as has become his habit, and puts her back in bed. "Perhaps tomorrow I will sneak you into a bath," he adds with a playful smile. "Forgive me for saying so, but you could use it, my Lady."

She laughs, and swats at him playfully. "A bath would be lovely," she says. "And new bedclothes. By the gods, I swear I did not feel how gross with my own sickness they were, but now that I feel better, I can think of nothing else."

"I promise to correct that as soon as I can," he says. He takes her empty plate and refills her wine, and parts from her with another smile. "I am going to close the curtain – I won't have you catching a chill when you're so far on the road to recovery."

She laughs again, and settles with a sigh when he closes the curtain. He leaves her rooms and goes back to the kitchens, finding them empty, and washes the dishes so that no one notices they were ever used.

He is walking back towards the servants' quarters when a light catches his eye. It is coming from the library, and, curious, he goes to it, creeping silently through the parted door and along the lines of the bookshelves. He pauses, able to recognize Hannibal's scent simply because it smells so much like his soap, and smiles to himself.

But another fragrance meets his nose, this one much sweeter, floral. He frowns.

"My King, I know what I have been told." His frown deepens, for that is the lady Bedelia's voice. "He has been seen visiting the fighting pits and talking with his old kin. My own handmaiden spied him walking out of a soap-maker's shop, and when she asked what he was doing there, he was very discourteous to her." She sighs. "I know you may love him -."

"Do not speak to me of what I feel." Hannibal's voice is cold; it is the angriest Will thinks he has ever heard him.

"Chiyoh herself has told me he still remembers and makes bargains with his kin in the Pass," Bedelia says sharply. "I don't know how, but he has bewitched you with his savage magic. How can you not see that?"

"I have no reason not to trust Will," Hannibal replies curtly. "He has done everything asked of him, and has done nothing to show his disloyalty or any insidious plot."

"Yes, I'm sure he's very clever," Bedelia says, her voice harsh and hissing. "You cannot allow this heathen _whore_ to -."

"Be very careful, my Lady," Hannibal interrupts. No, Will discovers; now he is the angriest he has ever heard. Will feels it cutting through him like a blade, and he shivers, swallowing harshly. Growls to himself; of course Freddie spoke to her mistress. Of course she would have. Will entertains himself with idly imagining cutting out her tongue until Hannibal speaks again. There must have been some look exchanged among them, for Hannibal is gentler now, though thick with exasperation; "How is Mischa?"

"Stronger by the day," Bedelia murmurs, voice softening with surprise. "I cannot explain it. I am simply doing what the doctor bade me do, though she is refusing to drink her milk. But she is eating now, and seems more alert and like her old self."

"That is good."

"Yes. I can only hope she feels well enough to rejoin us in court soon. Perhaps once she is back with us you will stop entertaining yourself with your servant boy and start acting like a King again."

Will's eyes narrow, and his upper lip curls back. He has made it a habit not to openly hate anyone in his life, but oh, he could _rip _her apart. A savage anger chokes him, and he turns away and leaves the library before he can do anything drastic, or reveal himself.

How dare she? Hannibal is the most capable and deserving man Will has ever met. He is the _King_, and to be spoken to like that offends Will deeply on his behalf. He thinks of his original assessment of Bedelia, acid on his tongue, and laughs to himself. Yes, she must be so deeply afraid of Hannibal's affections being turned from her, of her being replaced. If Mischa is well, then Hannibal will certainly thank the gods and devote his love to his family, and discard Will now that he has his beloved sister and aunt to entertain.

If she thinks Hannibal can only love two people, Will refuses to come third place.

It is a daring and brazen nature that compels him to go to Hannibal's rooms instead of his own. He enters the King's quarters and searches amongst his things for anything that will -. Ah, yes, perfect. A small jar of oil that smells like what Hannibal uses on his face after he shaves is retrieved from his little table, where his mirror glass and razor is.

Will opens it, testing the slippery contents. It does not smell like much of anything, which is good. It is almost too liquid, but will certainly do the job. He wets his fingers and sits on the chair in front of the mirror glass, pushing his robes aside so they fall on either side of his thighs.

He bites his lower lip, meets his own eyes. Watches himself as he slips his fingers, wet and warm, across his hole. With Hannibal going so long without mounting him here, Will is tight and dry and there is no soreness. His lashes flutter as he presses in with the first finger, his free hand gripping the little stool as his thighs spread out of habit, a teasing fullness that seems like so little when compared to Hannibal's girth. He pushes in as deep as he can, gasping and trying to find that spot that Hannibal found the last time, the place that made his heart rush and his spine feel so heavy.

He works another finger in, gritting his teeth and breathing out harshly, staring at himself in the mirror glass as he works. His cheeks have begun to flush, his eyes darkening in anticipation of more. His cock, bared from his clothes, begins to twitch, filling and rising. Maybe he is a whore, he thinks with a laugh.

He gasps as he starts to work his fingers inside him, pawing at his robes until they fall from his body, draped over the chair. His own unmarked neck taunts him; he thumbs over the places he remembers Hannibal biting, his belly tensing with heat and hunger at the thought of Hannibal doing it again. He'd liked it – he's liked everything Hannibal has done to him, in different ways, but Hannibal's teeth in his neck is a satisfying, animal urge, that feels like something he would have begged for if they'd have met on the road as wildlings.

He remembers how Hannibal had touched his chest, and drags his nails down, raising little red lines until he finds a nipple. He pinches it, and huffs, for it doesn't do much more than spark a little sensation of pain in him. Maybe it only feels good when Hannibal does it. He releases his nipple and instead focuses on holding himself steady as he grinds against his fingers, panting and moaning softly as his cock hardens until it leaks, red and straining against his thigh.

He's up to three fingers when he hears the door open, and he swallows, hurriedly straightening his clothes and standing. A weak whimper of loss escapes him when he pulls his fingers out, correcting his clothes, and Hannibal enters his bedroom and goes still when he sees Will.

His eyes darken, and rake over Will in a slow look. He can undoubtedly smell Will's arousal, and that's nothing to speak of the obscene bulge in his robes from his leaking cock, the gathering dark stain. Mischa said Hannibal speaks with his eyes, and Will thinks that is true, but he is not saying words. No, he is howling, and Will bows his head when Hannibal lifts his gaze.

"My Lord," he greets weakly, his throat hoarse from his cries and stifled moans. Hannibal approaches him, slow, like a wildcat ready to lunge. His gait is predatory, eyes burning, and Will doesn't resist the urge to press himself close to his master and moans when Hannibal kisses him.

"My Lord," he tries again. "I need you."

Hannibal breathes out harshly, cradling Will's skull with a warm, steady grip. "You have me," he says, and Will is struck by how sincere he sounds. The rush of Hannibal's pulse beneath his lips is decadent, the way Hannibal slowly, reverential almost, peels off his clothes and bares Will's entire body to him is like rapture.

He realizes, in a moment of humor, that he has never been completely bare for his King. His body has changed, from training and so well-fed, though he has been sacrificing his evening meals to Mischa of late. He is stronger, with thicker muscles in his shoulders and arms, his chest fuller from holding shields and swinging swords. His thighs, strengthened by so much running around and rigorous training. Hannibal's gaze sweeps over him appreciatively, and he lets out another low sound.

Will meets his eyes as he undresses his King, Hannibal's clothes falling from him in a whisper of cloth. So too, Hannibal has never been completely bared for Will. He has the bearing of a powerful beast, every inch of him designed to fight and to lead.

Will kisses his chest, rubbing his cheek against the hair pelted across it, and Hannibal sighs, closing his eyes. He lifts Will's head and kisses him deeply, his other hand flattening on Will's hip and pushing him backwards, to the bed.

They fall against it and Will's own scent greets him. He smiles as Hannibal breathes in raggedly, like he's starving for it, spreading Will's legs apart and covering him like warm water. Passion is felt in the stomach, and Will feels like his own has exploded, flooding every inch of him. He's blind with it, heated with it, and Hannibal kisses his neck and catches Will's slick hand.

He lifts his head and looks curiously at the sheen of wetness on Will's fingers. "I made myself ready for you," Will tells him, and Hannibal meets his eyes. He's howling, it's so loud. The creatures inside them are rubbed up tight together, purring, muzzles shoved to every part they can reach. Will wants Hannibal inside him, in any way he can. He's alight with it and thinks, gods, he thinks he understands what the poet was saying now.

"See?" the man whispers to him. Will nods in agreement, silent save for their breaths as the poet's words echo in his own head. "See how the dewdrops tremble beneath her touch." Will is shaking, and Hannibal has sweat on his brow that he leans up to kiss away. Hannibal falls against him, panting. "How the sun bursts fervently through the trees above, desperate to catch a sight of her."

There is no sunlight, not even the light of a candle, but the moon is full and bright and Will sees Hannibal in silver shadows, painted with it. "I know that I am lucky, for I can see her when the sun cannot." Even the covetous moon holds no allure for him. Hannibal breathes against Will's hair, kisses his forehead, his red cheek, his lips; "I drink honey and maple from her mouth, and smell the forest in her hair."

Hannibal spreads his hands wide and warm on Will's thighs, lifts his hips, and sinks into him, and Will throws his head back and gasps as he's filled.

"I can feel the warm heat of her and it rivals the brightest star. Do you see?"

He does. He sees it all. The slick of the oil helps with the stretching and the first push inside but it does nothing to eliminate how good it feels, to have Hannibal inside him. Will is empty, he's starving. He kisses his master and wraps his legs around Hannibal's waist, and Hannibal laces their fingers together and pushes them up high until Will's knuckles touch the ornate headboard. Will turns his hands, grips the edges of the mattress beneath the pillows that smell like him, and Hannibal smiles.

Hannibal pushes at the backs of his knees, gasping as Will does, folds him and braces Will against his shoulders so he can lean forward and kiss him again. His hands grip Will at the base of his spine, angling him up. Dig furrows. Lay marks.

Will tilts his head to one side and trembles when Hannibal bites him, sucking a fresh bruise to his neck. He cries out, and grips harder, with his body and his thighs on Hannibal's hips. He can't keep his hands where they are; one goes to Hannibal's hair, clutching him tightly, the second to Hannibal's shoulders and digging in with his nails.

He might be allowed to lay marks of his own, and he wants to.

Hannibal drives into him, so powerfully, but so gently. He could rip Will to pieces if he desired, could bruise and batter him simply by the merit of his own strength, but he does not. He kisses Will instead of breathing, sucks more marks to his neck, fills him in slow-rocking thrusts like he never wants it to end.

Will moans as that spot inside him is found and touched again, and digs both hands tight to Hannibal's back as he grits his teeth, arching, his legs falling off Hannibal's shoulders as he comes between their bellies, the friction of his master's skin against his cock driving him up and up and up. Hannibal drinks down his sated cries, rests their foreheads together, sweat coating his skin. All Will can feel, smell, see is his King.

"Hannibal," he whispers, cupping his master's – his King's, his mate's, his lover's – neck. Hannibal closes his eyes, shuddering at hearing his own name wrung so sweetly from Will's mouth. "Please, my Lord -."

"No," Hannibal growls, and kisses Will. "No, don't call me that."

Will smiles, and kisses him again. His orgasm has left him frantic, but not in the same way hunger makes him; ravenous, certainly, but a crueler and slower kind. A selfish kind, that makes him want Hannibal to never stop looking at him like that.

"Will," Hannibal breathes, his hands flexing on Will's flanks.

"Yes," he whispers. "Hannibal, please." He leans up, kisses his master's neck. Wonders if, when the poet laid with his wife, she felt half as weak and desperate and sick with love as Will does. "Let me nourish you."

Hannibal's answering sound is weak, and Will flattens his hands over Hannibal's chest to feel his thunderous heart. He swallows the snarl Hannibal lets out as Hannibal shoves himself as deep into Will as he can, moaning, gripping Will tight at the nape and on his shoulder as he ruts in and floods Will to bursting.

Will sighs, heavy and warm, and pets his own dirty stomach as Hannibal fills him. When Hannibal pulls out, he does not go far, but covers Will, uncaring for the mess of sweat and seed between them. He kisses Will ardently, breathlessly, and the seal of it is ruined by Will's smile.

Hannibal sighs, and rolls onto his back, but pulls Will to him. Will is happy to crowd him, plastered to his side, his cheek on Hannibal's shoulder as Hannibal tugs the other half of the uppermost sheet around their bodies to ward away the chill. Will pets over his chest, idly down to his sternum, and then back up as they recover their breaths.

Hannibal turns his head, and plants a kiss to Will's hair.

Will smiles, and knows he is likely giving himself away when he says; "Why do you think the poet never described his wife?"

Hannibal hums. "Perhaps he didn't want anyone to see her as he did."

Will smiles.

"I do know the answer, if you're curious."

Will lifts his head, meets his eyes. Hannibal smiles at him, gently petting his fingers over Will's face. "It was discovered, after the poet's death, that his wife was a noblewoman. They had married in secret, for he was a commoner and would never have received her father's blessing, or been able to afford the dowry." Will sets his chin on Hannibal's chest, and Hannibal sighs, blinking up to the ceiling. "She bore him a son, but hid him away so no one would find out. If memory serves, she ended up remarrying."

Will considers this. "Do you think she loved him like he loved her?"

"Her second husband?"

"The poet."

Hannibal is silent for a moment, his heart calming beneath Will's hand. "I like to think so," he finally says.

Will smiles. "As do I. And I like to think that when she laid with her new husband, she thought of the man who said she tasted of honey and maple." Hannibal's lips twitch in a fond, sad smile. "The man who boasted to the sun that he could see her during the moon's hours."

Hannibal blinks, his eyes slanting to that very moon, streaking in through the windows. He meets Will's eyes, a flash of careful, wary understanding dawning there. Will kisses his chest, closes his eyes, and sighs.

"I should leave."

"Yes," Hannibal agrees. "You should." His tone is guarded, but Will is not offended. "As pleasant a surprise as this was, you would do well not to do it again. Anyone could have happened upon you."

Will knows this. He nods, and lifts his eyes to meet Hannibal's again. "Forgive me my youthful passion," he says, and smiles widely, lopsided. He rises, and leans down to cup Hannibal's face, kissing him deeply and knowing it will not be a fake remnant of his scent that stains his master's sheets, tonight. Hannibal clings to him, reluctant to let Will go, but go he must.

He rises and redresses, and shivers at the feeling of seed staining his thighs. "I'll see you in the morning, my Lord," he whispers. Hannibal nods, and Will waits just long enough for him to dress in a thicker robe for the cold night air. He leans down and kisses Hannibal's forehead. "Have pleasant dreams."

When he returns to his cot, he opens his book, but hesitates on marking another tally. Ultimately, he discards the notion entirely, and returns the book to its place before settling down to sleep. He will not count this night; it had felt too real, too genuine, to mark it as a victory.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without spoiling too much, I did some *very vague* medicine research for Mischa's sickness and the various natural cures, so of course I'm not saying that all the shit Will is doing would actually work on anyone, HOWEVER it's a fic and I can do what I want.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry in advance.

Will is surprised and weak with joy to find that, when he visits Mischa next, she is not in bed, but sitting at her playhouse, two figurines in her hand that are engaged in conversation. She looks up and grins at him, and he smiles back at her. "My Lady, it's so good to see you up!" he says.

"It took years to get here," she replies, and nods to the bedclothes in his hands. "Are those for me?"

"Yes. Don't mind me."

She hums, sipping at her wine, and goes back to playing as Will draws back the curtains from her bed and strips her old mattress. The entire thing smells rather unpleasant, years of sweat and sickness built up. He rubs some soap into the yellowy center and then flips the mattress, dressing the clean side. The end result is far better suited to a princess, and Will gathers the soiled bedclothes and smiles at her.

"Do you think you could walk to the bath? I've prepared it already."

Her eyes widen with delight, and she nods, pushing herself to her feet. Coltish, trembling, but steady enough, she walks with her arm linked through his for balance, and he leads her to out into the main corridor. She gasps, putting a hand to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears rather suddenly.

"Are you alright?" Will asks, worried for her.

"Forgive me," she says. "I'm being a silly little girl. I just…haven't left that room for what feels like a lifetime." She turns, and cries again at the sight of the painting by her door. She brushes her fingers along the golden frame.

"Does my brother still paint?" she asks.

Will presses his lips together. "I haven't seen him do it, my Lady," he replies. "I didn't know that was by his hand."

"He used to write poems, and paint and draw constantly," Mischa replies. "I would demand he paint a new portrait of me every day." She laughs, and looks at him. "It pains me to think he has stopped. I will demand a new one of him and get him back into the habit soon, don't you worry! Shall we go?"

Will nods, and leads her to the little antechamber wherein there is a basin of steaming water, scented with soap. He turns away from her as she undresses, and only offers his arms for support as she climbs in and settles in the tub with a sigh.

"I will go bring these to the laundry, and return as soon as I can, my Lady," he tells her. She nods, smiling at him, the water dripping as she coats her skin and runs it up her arms. Will hurries to do as he said, and when he returns he finds she has added more soap to the basin so that her naked body is completely obscured beneath it. Her hair is wet, and her head tipped back to the lip of it.

She sighs, and smiles at him. "Will, you have been such a great friend to me. Your kindness and help may have saved my life."

"I'm only glad I was here to help," Will replies. He sits on the floor by the basin, turned away so she does not feel like she's being stared at. She hums, and sits forward, resting her elbow on the lip and propping her chin up in her hand.

"Tell me," she says, and Will turns his head to look at her. "Is there nothing you would ask for, in reward for your service?"

Will swallows.

Her brow arches. "I don't believe your silence," she declares. "I can give you riches, a new position if my brother's manservant doesn't please you." She hums, tapping her cheek thoughtfully, as Will has seen Hannibal do countless times. "Or perhaps you want land, and an estate. Of course you can't have that, as a servant. Oh! Of course! I will ask Hannibal to free you!"

Will closes his eyes, his fingers curling against the floor. "My Lady," he says softly, "do not think I am ungrateful, but I would not wish the King to think I only helped you out of some desire for a reward."

"If he knows your nature half as well as I think he does, and he remembers mine, he will know that is not the case," she says, and sits back with a laugh. "Yes, perfect! I will ask him to free you for restoring me to health. Maybe even give you a position in court! Then you can both be happy together."

Will forces a tight smile to his face. "My Lady, I fear your fever has returned, to be speaking such nonsense."

She laughs again, splashing in the water. "Will, you may have known my brother longer than I've known you, but I have known him my entire life. The way he acts when he mentions you – well, his eyes tell a thousand words for every one his mouth utters."

Her hands drag up her wrists again, and Will sighs and shakes his head. He could bear earning his freedom through his own means. He doesn't like the idea of Hannibal thinking he only helped Mischa to earn it, instead. His own dishonesty being found out is better than having it placed falsely.

"My Lady," he begins, and frowns when she goes very quiet, and very still. He turns, his eyes widening when he sees that the red rash has begun on her chest again, much worse than it has been for days. He bends down and lifts her from the bath immediately, draping her in every towel he can reach. She shivers, panting heavily, and Will hears her lungs rattle.

He takes her back to bed and sets her on the clean sheets, diffusing his herbs in fresh water and painting his salve over her forehead and upper lip. Her breathing eases, after a moment, and Will is quick to dry her of any of the bathwater.

He brings her a clean nightgown and clothes her in it, kissing her hair as she shivers and quakes. He goes to the washroom and leans down, breathing in the scent of the soap. It is not the King's normal soap for his courtiers and not the same he used for her mattress and laundry, though that doesn't strike Will as strange. It is a crisp, citrusy scent, and reminds him of the winter markets the river folk set up when the waters freeze and they resort to trade when they cannot fish. Cloves, and cinnamon, and -.

He breathes in again.

He unplugs the basin and is sure to wipe his hands thoroughly before returning to her. She is drinking wine, and looks better, and Will kneels beside her bed. "My Lady," he says, "forgive me."

She sighs. "I suppose it was inevitable that I would feel sick again," she says, sounding very sad. Will shakes his head – no, no, she was doing just fine. She was _fine_.

"That soap is not the castle norm," he says. "Where did you get it? It was in the room when I made your bath."

"It was a gift on my sixteenth birthday," Mischa replies. "I used it that night, and I loved the scent!"

"The night before you became sick," Will says, frowning. Mischa's brow creases, and she looks over at him. "My lady…. Do you know if your clothes are washed in that same soap?"

"I don't know," she says.

"I smelled orange," Will murmurs.

Mischa's brow creases again. "Orange?" she repeats, and laughs, shaking her head. "Oh no, I am afraid you must be mistaken! I react terribly when I come even close to the damned things. It clogs my throat and I cannot breathe, makes me terribly feverish, and I get a…rash…"

She looks down at her wrists. A soft, understanding 'Oh' escapes her, and then she turns to Will, wide-eyed, and grips his shoulder tightly. "Will," she says.

"Do you remember who gave you that soap?"

"No," she replies, shaking her head again. Her fingers release Will and she itches at her scalp, wincing. The water will have gotten into her hair, but there isn't much Will can do for her until it dries. "It wasn't labeled, I don't think. I don't remember."

Will looks to the pitcher of wine, and he presses his lips together, and stands. He gathers the wine and helps her upright, placing it between her knees. The opening at the top is wide enough to fit his hand, though not her head, and he gathers her hair and dips it in the wine, reaching in to cup large handfuls of it and pour it over her scalp.

She is shaking, but holding as still as she can as he carefully combs her hair, trying to coat it in wine, and scratches it over her scalp. He has no idea if it will work, but it's worth trying, since the drink proved so effective at easing her cough. When he is done he wrings her hair out and hands her a fresh sheet to dry it, and she cries openly, staring at him as he sets the jug far from her.

"I don't -. I can't -." Her shoulders tremble, and Will goes to her, kneeling down in front of her. "Will, I've been like this for _years_. Even if the soap made me sick in the first place, I should have recovered far more quickly."

Will nods. He has already come to the same conclusion. "Who knows of your aversion to them?"

"Everyone," Mischa says. "My brother doesn't even allow them in the castle."

Will presses his lips together. "The doctor will return tomorrow," he tells her. "I can let him know what we discovered. In the meantime, don't take your medicine. Don't eat anything given to you that you cannot tell what is inside." She nods, and he cups her face and gives her an encouraging smile. "I'm going to take care of you. I swear on my life."

She nods, wide- and teary-eyed, and he smiles, and kisses the top of her head. "Does it feel better?" he asks, gesturing to her wine-wet hair.

"Yes, thank you," she replies, and sighs. "A little, at least. I'm sure I will recover before tomorrow thanks to your potions." He nods, and she grabs his wrist. "Truly, Will, you must allow me to speak to my brother on your behalf."

Will sighs. "I cannot stop you," he tells her gently, "but I ask you try to see things from my side. I love my King dearly, my Lady, and I would hate to think of his reaction when he found out I had discovered you, and helped you in secret, when I was given no permission and, as far as he might know, attempted to do you harm. On top of that, if what we think is true, there is someone in the castle willfully trying to harm you. I do not want the King to doubt my love and loyalty for a second."

"But don't you see? This is the purest act of love you could have done," she tells him. She presses her lips together, seeing he will not be moved, and lets him go with a dramatic sigh. "Men are so strange."

"I confess that is true," Will replies with a smile. "Let me go get rid of this offending wine, and I will bring you something fresh tomorrow night." She nods, and allows him to tuck her into bed. He kisses her forehead, and bids her a good night.

Will wants to tell Hannibal what he discovered last night, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes he cannot possibly bring it before the King without knowing how Mischa is being harmed, or by who. If he tells Hannibal that somehow orange is being snuck into the castle, Hannibal will demand to know why Will even cares. He will want to know how Will discovered this. Even a casual mention might not lead Hannibal to the conclusion Will wants to lead him to. He cannot say it was a merchant who brought them, for Hannibal will want to know names. He lies awake at night thinking of a way that can protect his friendship with Mischa, and finds he can't.

Will is so distracted by these thoughts that he almost collides with Hannibal when he brings the morning meal, stumbling to a halt to find Hannibal already there. He takes the tray from Will and sets it on the table, not willing to move far enough to place it in his usual spot, and then Will finds himself with his back against the door, his lips claimed as Hannibal presses him up against it and kisses him deeply.

Hannibal's lips drop to his neck, and Will groans when he feels Hannibal's fingers, coated with slick, slide between his legs. He spreads them, tipping his head back as Hannibal sucks another mark to his bruise-spattered neck and sinks a finger inside him.

"Hannibal," he gasps, too shocked to even pretend to try his title first. He clutches at Hannibal's shoulders and Hannibal smiles against his pulse, adding a second finger. Faster than Will did to himself, but not painful.

Hannibal pulls back from him and takes his fingers from Will, turning him around and pressing him to the door. Will moans as his hips are canted back, Hannibal spreading the rest of the oil on his cock, and he grips Will steadily and pushes inside him.

He thrusts in all the way and Will shivers, panting. The muscle memory of how he normally spends his mornings compels him to drop to his knees, but he can't with Hannibal standing so close and holding him so fiercely.

Hannibal kisses behind his ear, and whispers; "Are you in pain?"

Will shakes his head, breathing hard. "No."

"Good." And then Hannibal is fucking him hard, as casually as he uses Will's mouth, with a gluttonous fervor. Will presses his hand to the door, bites on his wrist so he isn't too loud, for there are servants and courtiers undoubtedly milling around outside. Hannibal's hands slide to his waist and tighten, working Will back onto his cock, and Will moans weakly, his other hand forming a fist and banging against the door in a muted thud as Hannibal fucks him.

Hannibal kisses the back of his neck, breathes in his fresh-washed scent, and growls; "I found your little secret." Will gasps, tensing up. "Franklyn brought a vial of soap to me, saying he found it on your bed and knew I would want it, and he couldn't find you, so delivered it himself." He laughs. "Imagine my delight when I opened it and found the scent that has plagued me for so many nights."

Will clenches his eyes tightly shut, cursing Franklyn – and then Hannibal's hand wraps around his own cock, which fills and hardens quickly for his touch, and his curses turn to praise.

"Is this what you wanted, my dear boy?" Hannibal breathes. "Did you want me to ache for you, even when you weren't around? To chase your scent and grow mad when I could not find it except when you came to me again?"

Will can't deny it. He nods. "Are you angry with me?"

Hannibal laughs. "On the contrary, Will; your brazen nature continues to delight me."

Will moans weakly, dipping his spine, pressing back with his hips as Hannibal fucks him. He turns his head and receives a kiss for his trouble, shoulder falling to the door so he can grab Hannibal's clothes and urge him on.

Hannibal growls, biting his lower lip, and finishes with a sated rumble, eyes closing as he nuzzles Will's hair and breathes him in again. Will whimpers when he pulls out, strung-out and trembling with half-answered pleasure of his own. Hannibal lets him go, leaving him bereft.

"But," he finishes, straightening his clothes, "perhaps you are due for some unanswered desire. Since you have given me so many nights of it." He smiles widely, a purring and sated predator, and Will swallows, flushing, undeniably pleased to have made Hannibal look so content.

"Forgive my youthful arrogance," he says with a smile.

"To call it arrogance discredits your cunning, Will," Hannibal says lightly. He takes his tray and brings it to his normal spot, smiling when he lifts the cover and sees that Will has already taken his testing bite. "Come, sit with me."

Will obeys, sighing as he settles, willing away his own desire and trying to catch his breath.

"The librarian tells me you have been quite a close study of herbs and medicines as of late," Hannibal says. Will nods, for he cannot deny that. "Combined with your interest in Lord Chilton's trip, I wonder if you still claim it is simple curiosity that drives you."

Will huffs, and runs a hand through his hair. "No, my Lord, I confess it isn't."

"What, then?" Hannibal asks, and gives Will an amused smile. "Did you hope to become an apprentice to the doctor?"

"Of course not," Will says, grimacing at the idea. Gods, to serve _Chilton _of all people. "My people liked to study medicine, and herbs. And I like reading. And when I heard that there was a sickness in the land, I wanted to help if I was able. There are plants that I know you are not familiar with, because I used such a one on the horses when I was with the lady Chiyoh, and she did not recognize it. I didn't think it a large leap to assume Lord Chilton may not also be aware of them."

Hannibal smiles, nodding in agreement. "Perhaps you are right," he says lightly. "Did you find anything interesting?"

"Oh, all of it was interesting, my Lord," Will says. Then, slowly; "I came upon a text that depicted a strange affliction, however, unnamable by the man who wrote of it. A strange fever and rash, and nausea, that stretched on for months with no cure. I found it fascinating."

It is only because he is watching Hannibal so closely that he notices his hands stall, just for a moment. Hannibal hums, and takes a bite of his food. "Curious," he murmurs. "I don't know of any such curse. Perhaps there is a cure named in a later text."

Will swallows. Hannibal is lying to him, and he understands why, though it makes him ache and angry that Hannibal would not trust him with the knowledge of his beloved sister. "I hope I read about it soon," he says lightly. "I am terribly curious."

"Yes, I hope so too," Hannibal replies. He clears his throat and eyes the sunrise. "You had best hurry, or you will be late to meet with Rinaldo."

Will nods, pushing himself to his feet. He comes forward, glad when Hannibal lifts his head and allows him a kiss. He must continue playing his part, after all, though with each passing day, each hour, it starts to feel like his true self is more and more a skin. That Hannibal has flayed him to his core, exposing a truer nature than Will anticipated.

He thinks of Chiyoh's words, of how great liars fool themselves most often, and wonders, as this change overcomes him, if he is becoming a better liar, or a worse one.

Will pauses on his way to the library, the evening meal given and Hannibal's seed heavy on his tongue, his shoulders aching from the newest series of bruising, warm marks his master has laid upon him. He freezes, hearing a soft hitching cry from one of the store rooms by the kitchens. He swallows, and comes closer to the door, head tilted and ears pricked to hear it better.

Someone is crying inside the room. It sounds like a woman, and Will has never been able to simply ignore the grief of someone else. Even if whoever is inside curses at him and yells at him to leave, it is a cold-hearted man who would simply pretend he never heard it.

He pushes the door open with a small creak, hears the woman inside gasp and try to contain her cries. The innards of the storeroom are stacked with sacks of flour, cornmeal, and cheeses, and the high shelves momentarily obscure a woman's skirts from view. He frowns, and goes inside, rounding the first shelf and sees Alana, her face splotchy from crying, her eyes bright and red-rimmed, trying to fix her hair and wipe her face.

She freezes when she sees him, and sighs. "Oh, it's you," she says sullenly.

Will offers her a thin smile. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she lies, huffing and unwrapping the tie from around her hair so it falls in waves around her face, and pulls it up into a new ponytail. She wipes over her face again and sucks in a loud breath. "I'm fine," she says again, fixing him with a steely eye.

Will presses his lips together. "If you say so, my Lady," he replies. "But if you're not fine, that's okay too."

She bares her teeth at him, her eyes narrowing. "I'm not _your _Lady," she says. "I'm not anyone's Lady."

Will holds his hands up, shakes his head. "I meant no offence."

"Of course, you meant no offence. You probably don't have a cruel bone in your entire body, do you?" He blinks, shocked at her aggression, but he cannot help it – he laughs. His laughter seems to stymy her; she freezes in place, eyes wide, and deflates against the stack of flour she was using to support herself.

"Every man is capable of cruelty," Will replies. "And women, too." His head tilts. "Is it a man's cruelty that has driven you here?"

"Leave me alone," Alana hisses.

"As you wish."

He bows his head to her, and turns to leave, troubled but not surprised. As he reaches the door, he hears her shuffling footsteps behind him, and she catches his wrist and halts him in place. "Wait," she says, and bites her lower lip when Will turns to look at her. "What you said, before…. About telling you if anything was happening with my master. Did you mean it?"

"Of course I did," Will replies, frowning. "Did he lay a hand on you?"

"No," Alana says, and shakes her head. "No, he hasn't. But when we returned, he was in a black mood, and after he met with the King and the lady Bedelia, he was in such a fit of rage that he cursed me and threw me from the infirmary and told me that I must leave the castle by dawn. I don't know where I can go, or what to do – if he even has the power to throw me out like that. I fear what he might tell the King."

Will frowns. "Since your service was commanded by the will of the King, I doubt Lord Chilton has the authority to simply cast you aside, and certainly could not banish you from the castle." He shakes his head. "Where is Lord Chilton now?"

"I don't know," Alana confesses. "I left in a hurry."

"Come," Will says. "I will take you to the King myself. Let's go wash your face and get you something to eat before we go."

She nods, sighing in relief, and smiles. "Thank you, Will," she says, letting him go and fixing her hair again. Will smiles at her, and leads her out of the storeroom, to the kitchen to get some bread and water in her, and lets her wash her face in one of the sinks. When she looks more presentable, he leads her up to the King's quarters, and knocks.

He enters, holding up a hand to bid her stay put, and meets Hannibal's eyes. "Will," he greets warmly, surprised. "Is everything alright?"

"My Lord, I know this is unusual, but I have with me the doctor's apprentice, Alana." Hannibal nods, standing, his eyes flashing in recognition. "She told me that the doctor has thrown her to the streets and commanded she leave the castle." Hannibal's head tilts, his mouth thinning in displeasure. "I do not know enough of the laws to know if he is able to do such a thing, but I beg you to receive her for an audience, if you have the time."

"Of course, Will," Hannibal says kindly. Will smiles at him, and opens the door further to allow Alana to come inside. Hannibal's face softens upon looking at her, and he gestures for her to take a seat at his table as he places himself at the head. "Would you mind fetching some wine, Will? The poor girl looks like she could use it."

"Of course, my Lord," Will replies. There is no wine in Hannibal's rooms, for he took the remainder with him after the evening meal, so he goes to the stores and brings up a fresh pitcher and cups, and pours some for Alana and Hannibal both.

"Thank you, Will. You may leave us."

Will bows his head, and gives Alana an encouraging smile. He does not think Hannibal will be cruel to her, but will listen to her tale and decide a fair judgement. He can only hope Hannibal finds another place for her in the castle, or a fitting station in the main town.

Worried about Chilton, Will sets out to find him. He prowls by the doctor's stores and hears movement about inside, the man muttering to himself and cursing under his breath, and he nods to himself. Good, he is still inside.

Then, pricked with a worry he cannot name, and knows not the origin of, he goes to Mischa's rooms. He finds her in her bed, sound asleep, and smiles, but the smile fades from his face as she does not stir as she so often has whenever he enters, sensitive to his noises and scent.

"My Lady?" he hazards, and goes to her, drawing back the curtain. His eyes widen when he sees that she has turned very pale, and looks clammy and sickly, her eyes roving beneath her eyelids. "My Lady," he says again, and goes to her, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead.

He curses, to feel her skin so warm. He leans down and touches her neck, glad to feel her pulse. It is slow, and heavy, but steady. Her breathing is uneven and rasping, and he cups her head and gently lifts her so she can more easily breathe.

He leans down, listening to her breaths, and growls to himself when he smells orange, and lavender on her tongue. Someone has poisoned her. He knows, though he cannot prove it, that somehow Chilton was involved. The man just came back and suddenly Hannibal's sister is once again in the throes of her sickness.

He thinks of what Alana told him, and wonders if Chilton's rage was because of her recovery. Or perhaps because she was refusing his medicine. Will stands, and sees her nearby pitcher of wine, and breathes in the scent. Oranges, faint but unmistakable. He could have laced the wine with the juice of it, the scent of the grapes covering up the citrus, and then fed her some other potion when she became sickly that made her lose consciousness.

He freezes, as the door opens, and Chilton, the lady Bedelia, and Chiyoh rush in. "Unhand her!" Chilton cries, and Chiyoh comes forward, her sword drawn. Will releases Mischa immediately, holding his hands up in surrender.

"My Lord, my Ladies, I swear I was just -."

"Don't say another word, savage," Chilton snarls. "Arrest him!"

Chiyoh grabs him, and Will hisses at the tightness of her grip. "Lady Chiyoh, you know I would never harm Mischa," he says quickly, but finds her eyes dark and cold, her expression set into unmovable stone.

Bedelia folds her arms across her chest and scowls at him. "I have seen you skulking around all hours the night, and find you here in the princess' room when she is suddenly so sick! She was fine until the second the doctor returned; clearly you mean to harm her and blame him for it."

Will stares at her, and looks between her and Chilton. The man has gone to Mischa's bedside, and Will snarls, lunging for him. "Don't you fucking touch her!" he yells, and Chiyoh hauls him back, wrapping cuffs around his wrists so he cannot fight.

"A savage at heart," Bedelia says coldly. "I knew you were from the beginning. You may have blinded my nephew, but you will not fool me so easily."

"I swear," Will says, "I swear, I never harmed her. I was helping her. I swear!"

"The King will hear of this," Chilton promises darkly, and meets Will's eyes. "Throw him in a cell for the night while I make sure the princess does not perish."

"Don't touch her!" Will yells, but Chiyoh is strong, and cuffed and unbalanced as he is, without a weapon, he cannot fight her. There are more soldiers outside the room and Will glares at them, thinking it awfully convenient that Chilton chose this night to come with an armed guard. He is responsible, Will is sure of it. More soldiers grab him, hauling him away, and he is led down to the cellars, and then deeper, where he has never gone. The air is freezing and wet, and feels like the caves except they are not his caves, they are not familiar to him. He's unbound and thrown into a cell on his hands and knees, gritting his teeth as his skin is scraped and torn open on the rough ground.

The cell door closes and locks behind him, and Will rolls to a sitting position, then to his feet. He presses himself to the bars of his cell and glares at the soldiers' retreating backs. He snarls, shaking the bars, but quiets when the guard yells for him to mind himself lest he earn a beating.

He steps back, and sinks against the wall, sick with worry over Mischa's state. By all the gods, let her live, he begs the gods to let her live. He cannot do anything from here, but hopes that Hannibal, spurred by his affection for Will, visits him soon so Will can explain himself. He will bear Hannibal's wrath, for lying to him and going behind his back to treat his sister; he will confess everything if he must, as long as she lives.

He closes his eyes, and presses his fists to his forehead, and fights back a sharp cry of anguish. Inside his chest, his beast is howling, and Will hopes Hannibal can hear it, wherever he is. He hopes Hannibal comes soon.

No one visits him for the night, nor the following day. His is given a slice of bread and a small knot of cheese for his meal, and he eats it, but doesn't taste it. His stomach aches with hunger and his muscles are sore from the cold stone walls. No comforts of home, here. He hears nothing except the drip of water from overhead, is robbed of sunlight, breathes only stale and wet air.

Then, he hears movement, and lifts his head as the guard comes forward. He sees Hannibal, and goes to his knees immediately, and feels cold at the look in Hannibal's eyes. He is flanked by Bedelia and Chilton, and their glares are so filled with hate, he wonders how a person can have so much ire and not melt under the heat of their own wrath.

Hannibal is looking at him like Will tried to kill him himself, and Will shakes his head. "My Lord," he says. "Is the princess still alive?"

Hannibal's nostrils flare, and his jaw clenches. "Barely," he replies. Will winces, curling in on himself, and shakes his head again, running his hands through his dirty hair.

"I didn't harm her," he says harshly. "I didn't. I swear I didn't. I would never."

"I had his belongings searched, my King," Bedelia says, and Hannibal tears his eyes away from Will to regard her. She is holding a book in her hand – the book Will purchased his first day in the markets. "It's an account of your reign, and look here in the back." She opens it, to show Hannibal the tally marks. "Clearly he has been marking down something, while learning about you. Combined with his potions, and his behavior, it is obvious that he has been trying his very best to get close to you and manipulate you, blinding you to his true purpose."

Will shivers as Hannibal takes the book, a frown on his face. Will doesn't know if he will recognize it for what it is. He meets Will's eyes, and then looks to Chilton. "You said your stores were plundered while you were away?"

"Yes," Chilton says, glaring at Will. "I assumed it was because my apprentice didn't lock the rooms up properly. But after what she has told me, I know it was him." He huffs. "She told me Will was trying to convince her to lie to you, my King, about my treatment of her. That he wanted her to pretend I raped her or otherwise abused her, which you know I would never do."

Will stares at him. He can't believe what he is hearing. Did Alana lie? Was it just a distraction, to make sure Hannibal wasn't near Mischa when Will was stalked, and framed, and taken to prison? He rages against the injustice of it all, and pushes himself to his feet.

"My Lord, you know me," he says harshly. "You know I would never do _anything _to harm you or your family."

Hannibal snaps the book closed, his expression unreadable. "Leave us," he commands, and Bedelia's lips purse, but she and Chilton go, out of sight. "The affliction that plagues my sister, Will – you confessed to have studied it. You told me so yourself. And that's not even to mention the fact that you knew of her existence in the first place." His eyes are black, and Will shivers at the suspicion crawling behind them. "You have lied to me, and proved more than once your penchant for manipulation."

"I found her," Will says. "I found her and she spoke to me and I thought I could help her. I _did_ help her, my Lord – the entire time Lord Chilton was gone, she was improving, because of the potions I made for her. If she was awake she would tell you so herself."

Hannibal frowns.

"There is a soap-maker in the town, a man named Tobias. You can go to him and ask him what he made for me. He will tell you it was the soap with my scent, but he will also tell you I spent hundreds on herbs to help the princess."

Hannibal does not move, does not react. Will laughs, helpless and bitter. "My Lord, you _know _me!" he says. "I have never said a bad word about you, or raised a hand to you, or done anything but give my love and service to you. Ask yourself this; do you doubt your own judgement of me, now? Does the honest and nurturing man you knew no longer exist?"

Hannibal breathes out, and looks down at the book again. "The evidence against you is damning, Will," he murmurs. Will closes his eyes, turns his face away. "First, there are the missing stores. Then the curiosity about Mischa's affliction, which you now tell me you were researching so you could treat it. But my aunt and two of my most trusted advisors found you bent over her bed and herself close to death." Will sucks in a breath, and refuses to let the frantic rage in his chest come out. If he starts, he might never stop. "What are these tallies? Bedelia would have me believe you were keeping track of something."

Will swallows. "They are the times I served you, my King," he says weakly. "And below them, the times you finished me in turn."

Hannibal frowns at him. "Why were you counting this?"

"Because I am a fool," Will snaps.

"Will." Hannibal's voice is low with threat, and command.

Will sighs, and runs his hands through his hair. "The fighters told me that if they earn one hundred victories in the arena, they are given their freedom," he whispers. "I considered that, maybe, if I gave you one hundred acts of service, you might see fit to do the same."

Hannibal blinks at him, and looks down at the book. It is only because his face remains so stoic that Will can tell the confession affects him deeply. It's all in the eyes, and Will has never seen a man's heart crumble before, but gods above, it cannot be as painful as the look that greets him now.

"So," Hannibal says, clipped and quiet, and closes the book, "I am to find out our friendship was just another ploy of yours, to distract and manipulate me."

"No," Will replies weakly, his eyes burning. He looks down and shakes his head. "I stopped counting."

"You stopped," Hannibal echoes. His voice is unwavering, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense. He looks like he would do grievous harm to Will if there were not cell bars separating them. Will nods, and runs a hand through his hair, over the side of his neck.

Breathes; "I don't think the poet's wife counted the nights she spent with her love."

Hannibal turns away so abruptly it's almost like a shove, and Will tenses, stepping back, afraid that Hannibal might summon the guard and have him open the cell just so that he can beat Will for his insolence, his manipulation, his betrayal. Will would take it; he deserves it, for putting such a powerful sadness in his King's chest.

"Do not speak to me of love," he hisses. "I don't think you're capable of it."

The words strike him like a blow, but as Hannibal turns to leave, Will rushes to him and reaches through the bars, catching the sleeve of his robe. Hannibal whirls on him, wild-eyed, and grips his wrist tight enough to crush the delicate bones. Will winces, but refuses to let go.

"My Lord," he says. "Do with me what you will. Leave me here to starve, or gut me and stain the walls with my blood. Take me to the middle of the town and lash me for a liar, take my hands or my tongue or my head if it pleases you. But _please, _I beg you, and if there is any shred of affection for me left in you, I hope you heed me."

Hannibal's nostrils flare. His grip tightens.

"Have Lord Chilton make the princess' potion in front of you," Will begs. "She was being dosed with oranges, my Lord, I have smelled it. Somehow he is trying to keep her weak." He sucks in a breath. "I never bid Alana lie about her master, merely told her that she could come to me if he abused her. I have never lied to you, merely held truths close to my chest, but I have laid them all out now. My only wish is for the princess to get better."

Hannibal's gaze is cold, his eyes black with rage.

Will wets his lips, and they are so dry, his wrist hurts so badly, and yet he refuses to let go. "Hannibal," he whispers. "Please."

Hannibal blinks, the hard line of his mouth softening almost without his permission, and then he snarls, yanking Will's grip from his robes and shoving him back so harshly he goes stumbling. "Give him nothing to eat and only enough water so that he doesn't die," Hannibal tells the guard, and Will winces, rubbing his wrist, which bears a red mark from Hannibal's hand now. He hears Hannibal leave, rejoining Bedelia and Chilton, their voices fading away as they leave the jail cells.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so fucking eager to post this I originally posted it to the wrong fic I'm so stupid omg.

It feels like days before anyone comes for Will again, and he is surprised to see that it is Chiyoh who visits him. He is shaky with hunger and feels delirious from lack of sleep, but pushes himself to his feet and stands, leaning against the cell doors, as she approaches him.

"The princess," he rasps. "How is she?"

Chiyoh's brows lift. "You ask about the princess before anything else," she murmurs. "That either speaks to your innocence, or there is some other poison still in her we are not yet aware of."

Will winces, closing his eyes. His lips are tacky and his beard itches his skin, his mouth flooded with the stench of the other prisoners, of his own urine in the corner – mercifully that is all he gave since he has had no food, and even then it is a pitiful stream now.

"You know I would never harm her," Will says. "Or the King. You _know _I wouldn't."

Chiyoh's eyes lower, and she sighs through her nose. "I know that you are a capable liar," she replies, and Will huffs an aggravated breath, too tired, too wretched, too hungry to deal with this. If they let him out he would run to Chilton's rooms and find the orange blossom, the juice, the little fucking seeds himself if he needed to. He would tear the castle apart to find it, and light a fire before the King with the flesh of Chilton and Bedelia for firewood, and throw it into the fire in front of his very eyes. He would fall to the King's feet and brand himself with his allegiance, cut deep until his master saw how devoted Will is to him.

"I have stopped lying," Will says. "To the King. To myself. I have told half-truths, and I have hidden secrets. But I have thrown open the gates of my own thoughts and bared myself to the sun. I have nothing left to hide from him." He sighs. "The King knows I love him. Whether he believes it, I cannot say, but he knows."

Chiyoh sighs, and Will startles when he feels her hand touch his around the bars. "I believe you," she says quietly, leaning in. "I thought it suspicious that Lord Chilton commanded I bring an armed company, to a room that no one should enter, and found you at the princess' bedside when she had seemed so well even the day before."

Will nods, meeting her eyes.

"And," Chiyoh continues, "I do not think a man who would give his food to strangers for the passage of soldiers, who would not take up arms even in a war, and who would serve his King as graciously and eagerly as you have would have the spirit to poison a little girl. So, I believe you."

Will swallows. "I'd like to tell you a story."

Her head tilts.

"This is a story of a young princess, and a well-loved King. The King has no heirs, and so the princess would be the next in line to the throne. The King has grown older, and taken no wife, and now favors the company of his male servant beyond that of any woman, so there is no heir in sight for his line. With the princess so sick, on whose head does it fall to rule the Kingdom, when the King dies? Or when his heart is so weak with sorrow for his sister's passing that he can no longer rule?"

Chiyoh's eyes narrow. "There is a lady of the court," she says slowly, "who would benefit greatly."

"As would the doctor who aided her," Will murmurs. "The King told his servant that he does not know who this lady would marry, but that she would be forced to. A manageable enough arrangement – one night, for one heir. Easy enough, especially if the doctor can make all kinds of potions to help her conceive. Or, by happy coincidence, he has been gifted a young apprentice by the King, still fertile and too scared of him to resist his advances."

Chiyoh's jaw clenches with anger. "What did the King's servant do?"

"The servant helped the princess feel better," Will says. "When she was well enough, he offered her a bath, for he uniquely knew how nice it felt after such a long sickness or prolonged discomfort. He used soap he found in the princess' washroom, but when she laid in the water, her skin became red with a new fever, her breathing harsh and uneven. It was a soap she had been given on her sixteenth birthday, and held the scent of oranges."

Chiyoh frowns. "The princess is allergic to oranges," she says.

"I know," Will replies. "And the servant washed her hair with wine and told her not to take any potions or eat any food that she might suspect. When the servant was in her room, the night he was arrested, he smelled oranges in her wine. The doctor might have laced her milk and honey with them to keep her sick for so long, and only when she refused to drink it, did she recover." He shakes his head. "They're going to kill her, Chiyoh. It's the perfect time to poison her for good and blame some slow-acting thing on me. If the King does not die of heartbreak, they will hurt him next. And I'm stuck _here_."

Chiyoh breathes out harshly, and nods to herself. She frowns, and looks away as the guards change shifts, and sighs again. "I will do what I can," she promises.

"Chiyoh," Will adds. "When I was with the princess, I smelled lavender as well. Did you give Lord Chilton the plants I showed you, in the caves?" She frowns, and nods. "He could have mixed them with the plant, either by accident, or because he knew the princess would not be able to defend me. But he cannot give her too much, or she _will _die." He shakes his head and meets her eyes with a plaintive gaze. "Please don't let her die."

Chiyoh nods. "I won't," she promises. "I must hurry. With any luck, the plot will be exposed, and I will see you freed from here, and back in the King's good graces, before the next dawn."

"I don't care about any of that," he says, and is surprised to find he means it. Starved, underwatered, abandoned, he does not care – none of it matters if Mischa dies because he couldn't save her. She blinks at him, shocked too by his sincerity, and then she huffs, and strides swiftly away.

Will sighs to himself, and curls up on the floor as far away from his corner of urine as possible. The smell makes him gag, and he's sick with worry for Mischa, but he trusts Chiyoh, and her love for the Lecter siblings. Even if she owes Will no loyalty, Will doesn't doubt her loyalty to her King, and can only hope she intercedes in time.

Will is half asleep, delirious and feverish, when he hears the bars of his cell open. He stirs weakly, but cannot bring himself to open his eyes, cannot do anything but weakly push at the hands that gently hold him, and help him to his feet.

He collapses against a broad chest, and breathes in. Whimpers, for the man smells like his King, but that's impossible. Hannibal is so angry with him, he would never come back down here; he left Will to starve and suffer in his own wretched, helpless misery.

A soft rumble soothes him, and a hand goes to his hair, so gentle and familiar a touch. He shivers, and rasps; "Is this a dream?"

He laughs before the reply can come. What a foolish thing to say. Of course it is.

Words graze his ear, but Will does not hear them. He is led from the cells and up the stairs, slowly, mindful of his weakness. He is led to the room he took his first bath in, the water steaming and flooding the air, blinding him. He is stripped of his clothes with reverent hands and lifted into the tub, settling with a pathetic whimper as his raw, chafed skin meets the hot water.

A cup is pressed to his lips, and he smells wine, and drinks. The wine has been watered down, but he doesn't care. He drinks until he chokes on it, and gasps when the cup is taken away, and replaced with one just of water. He drinks that too, until his stomach cramps and his throat seizes in protest.

Gentle, warm hands dip into the water, lifting it to his arms and shoulders, down his neck, over his back, through his hair. He closes his eyes and allows himself to be petted and moved as the man desires him, too weak to fight back, too weak even to try and catch a glimpse of his nameless nurse.

He smells food, and moans, hoarsely, as meat is offered to him. He takes it, and eats. And the bread that follows, and the thick grapes that are placed, one by one, between his lips. He feels the food and wine warm his belly, bring new strength to his limbs, and he dares to open his eyes.

Hannibal's face is paler than Will remembers him being, dark circles under his eyes making the red hues in them more stark. Will swallows, and winces when Hannibal smiles at him, and kisses his forehead. He turns his face away, and Hannibal breathes out shakily, holding him gently by his hair.

"Will," he breathes. "Will, look at me."

"No," Will says. "This is a dream, or a fever has finally taken me. You're not real."

"I'm as real as you are," Hannibal replies. He does not seem offended by Will's remark, and continues to wash his hair and his shoulders, cleaning him of the muck of the cells. He stands, after a moment, and even if it is just an apparition, Will whimpers with loss.

"Hush, my dear boy," Hannibal murmurs, and kneels down behind his head. He has a blade in his hand, and Will sighs, tipping his head back to expose his throat. If this is how he dies, it's not a bad way to go. Hannibal kisses his forehead, and Will closes his eyes.

The kiss of the blade against his cheek makes him swallow, but Hannibal does not cut him. He drags the blade down Will's cheek smoothly, clearing it of hair, and Will shivers, opening his eyes and watching his King's face as Hannibal slowly, with painstaking care and gentleness, shaves him of his beard, following each touch of his blade with a brush of his fingers, clearing Will's face of his dirty hair.

When he's done, he smiles, and kisses Will again, cupping his face. "Oh, Will," he murmurs, and his eyes close, his expression contorted into one of deep sorrow. "Forgive me. Please, forgive me, for what I've done to you."

Will swallows, his throat going tight by how pained Hannibal sounds. He lifts a shaking, wet hand, and touches Hannibal's cheek, earning his gaze again.

"Is she okay?" he asks.

Hannibal nods, breathless, and looks away. His jaw clenches. "Chiyoh told me about the plants you found in the caves," he says. "I remembered you telling me about them, and from her report. I went to Chilton and bid him make a salve for Mischa, and saw him use those very plants, and mix them with lavender. I watched him, and felt like such a fool for trusting him, once I knew what he had done."

He growls, upper lip twitching back. "I found an orange plant growing in his stores, hidden away. He told me he used it only for medicines with the common folk, but as soon as I questioned Alana, she broke and confessed everything."

Will swallows. "She lied to you," he says. "To help him frame me?"

"She told me Chilton threatened to beat her and rape her and sell her to the brothels if she didn't obey. I believed her, but I confess I am still filled with anger that I allowed her to trick me."

He looks back at Will, and sighs. "I also found a number of letters, between my aunt and the doctor. Chiyoh told me the story you told her." He shakes his head, resting their foreheads together. "I was so blind, Will, and so foolish. Can you forgive me?"

Will's lips twitch in a weak smile. "The first time you were angry with me, you reacted as my friend," he says, and Hannibal blinks at him, head tilted in consideration. "You vowed not to let your emotions get the better of you the second time, so the second time I angered you, you reacted like a King." Hannibal's eyes are dark, his lips tilted down, but Will knows he cannot argue. A King would not trust the word of a servant over his advisors. A King would not allow affection for that servant to soften his heart.

Will sighs. "You thought I meant to harm your sister," he murmurs. "I would have done the same."

"No," Hannibal replies. "You wouldn't have."

Another smile tugs at Will's mouth, this one a little wider. "I don't want to argue who has the worst penchant for vengeance, my Lord," he says tiredly. "Only know that, for many days now, my thoughts have been only on what I would do to the doctor, if he were locked in the cell with me."

Hannibal laughs, though it's shaky. He stands, and rinses Will one more time, before helping him to his feet and wrapping him in a warm, thick robe. Will leans against him, content to let Hannibal hold him, and Hannibal leads him to his rooms and pulls the bedclothes back, laying him down on his soft mattress. Will's own scent greets him, mixed with Hannibal's, and he laughs weakly, realizing that, despite his anger, Hannibal still bid his sheets and pillows be doused with Will's scent. He buries his face in the pillows, breathing them in.

Hannibal settles behind him, pulling Will to his chest, and kisses his hair. Finally, the howling in Will's head grows quiet, and melts into a purr, the creature in his chest curled up next to its mate's flank, and he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

He wakes to find himself alone in Hannibal's bed, and sits bolt upright, gasping as he sees that the sun is high in the sky. He scrambles out of bed and curses himself for sleeping so long. He missed bringing Hannibal's breakfast, and perhaps even his lunch. He needs to find out what time it is quickly, and locate his master and beg for forgiveness for shirking his duties.

The door opens, and Will freezes when he sees Hannibal carrying his own tray in. Hannibal meets his eyes, and smiles, setting the tray down and rushing to him. Will falls to his knees in front of his King, panting heavily, still shaken from his ordeal in the cells.

"My Lord, forgive me," he says. "I didn't mean to sleep so late."

"Will," Hannibal laughs, and pulls him upright. He smiles, and cups Will's face, kissing him deeply. "If you had risen a moment sooner, I would have sent you back to bed." His eyes darken, and he sighs, tucking Will's wild hair back from his face. "My treatment of you was abhorrent. That I doubted your loyalty to me, the things I said…"

Will shakes his head, resting a hand over Hannibal's heart. He swallows, and murmurs, "I'm just happy she's going to be okay. She'll sleep off the potion Lord Chilton gave her, if she hasn't already, and she'll recover." He meets Hannibal's eyes. "Right?"

Hannibal nods. "I have Chiyoh watching her, and my aunt and the doctor have been isolated to their rooms to await trial." Will smiles. "A trial you may be called to testify at, if you're willing."

"Of course, my Lord," Will says. "Whatever you command of me."

Hannibal sighs, resting their foreheads together. Will cannot stop the little sound of contentment, bubbling up and bursting from behind his teeth. It feels like a lifetime has passed since Hannibal last touched him like this; he has been reborn, remade. He's come home.

"Are you hungry?" Hannibal asks. "I brought enough food for both of us."

"Starving," Will replies, and smiles. Hannibal brings him to the table, and Will eats first, as has become their tradition. They are smiling, knees touching beneath the table, as they eat and drink together, like nothing has changed. Will can see Hannibal's gaze lingering on his wrist, and he looks down at it, rubbing gently at the bruising still planted along his arm.

"I do not hate you," Will says quietly, meeting Hannibal's eyes. "It is simply a mark of your passionate nature, my Lord; the same nature that intrigues and delights me daily. I look at this and see a man willing to fight for his family. It's noble."

"My family betrayed me," Hannibal replies. "I turned my back on the truest and closest friend I have ever known because of my family. I don't know how to look at myself, knowing I was so easily misguided."

Will smiles, and huffs. "With all due respect, my Lord, I misguided you too. Tricked you, as well." He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. "I cannot even say it was not for selfish reasons, though those reasons seem so less important to me now. I manipulated you for my own personal gain, but it was not done out of cruelty."

"Necessity," Hannibal confirms. "Do you still think it necessary, Will?"

Will looks at him, and shakes his head, smiling.

Hannibal hums, his eyes turning dark and contemplative, and his gaze goes to his writing desk. On it, Will recognizes his book. "Why did you buy that?" he asks.

"It was a whim," Will replies. "I saw it and thought I would like my own copy of my King's deeds, his laws. I wanted to know how he had changed the land he ruled, and wanted to read about his fairness, and his greatness in battle. I wanted to know more about him. Something that I could read on my own, when sleep eluded me."

Hannibal nods. "And the marks?"

"I told you already; I stopped counting."

"Why?"

"You know why."

Hannibal sighs. "I would have you say it."

Will takes his hand, and curls their fingers together. He does not speak until Hannibal looks at him again. "Because I came to realize that I desired no cave, no Pass, no river, if I did not have you," he says. He needs Hannibal to see how much he means that. "I thought I could earn my freedom, but what is freedom worth when I cannot be with the man I love so dearly?"

Hannibal swallows, and looks down at their folded hands.

"You are the poet to me, Hannibal," Will says quietly. "And if I left, and took a second husband, or a wife, or walked any other land, I would hunger still, only, for you." He smiles. "How could I leave you, once I realized that?"

"And do you still feel that way, after what I've done?" Hannibal whispers.

"Yes." It is said plainly, openly.

Hannibal smiles, a thousand notes of joy coloring his iris. He squeezes Will's hand, and stands, going to the book. He gathers it, and opens it to the back page, where Will was leaving his marks. "There is a large gap between us," he notes, and Will laughs. "Seems quite unfair, wouldn't you think?"

Will shrugs. "I didn't mind."

"I do," Hannibal replies. He closes the book, sets it down, and pulls Will to his feet. "I have so many unkindnesses to make up for, so much affection to repay." He kisses Will, and takes his hands. "Stay with me for the day."

Will grins, and lets himself be led to bed. "As you wish, my Lord."

Snow has fallen thickly along the ground, the icy claws of winter gnawing at the castle gates, her breath stirring up flurries of snow and fierce rain that keep the nobles indoors. It is during one such storm that Will brings up Hannibal's evening meal, and freezes in shock, to see his master is not alone.

Mischa looks _wonderful_. A healthy color paints her pale face, her hair glossy and so long it stretches in a loose braid down to her hips. Her dress is the same red as Hannibal's colors, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders to help her stave off the cold. She is laughing with her brother, bright-eyed and alive with youth, and healthy.

Hannibal is smiling too, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his teeth on display. Will is heartened to see them both so happy together. He brings in the tray and Mischa turns to him, and her eyes widen in recognition.

"Will!" she cries, and leaps to her feet, embracing him tightly. Will huffs, surprised, but smiles wide and hugs her back. She is still awfully thin, and dainty in his arms, but he can tell she is much better, and seems full of boundless energy like a spring lamb.

She pulls back with a smile, and turns from him, her expression at once going serious. "Hannibal, now that he is here, I have a request for you." Hannibal blinks, and gestures for her to continue. She takes Will's hand and squeezes it. "I demand you free this honorable man from your service. He is the kindest and most loyal friend I could have ever asked for, and deserves the most land and riches we could give him!"

Will flushes, and glares at her halfheartedly. "My Lady," he scolds, pulling his hand free. His blush darkens further at her bright grin. Will looks at Hannibal to see him trying to hide a smile. "I swear, my Lord, I begged her to stay silent on the matter. I did not help her out of some desire to see myself rewarded."

"But you did help her," Hannibal says. "Because of you, she is sitting with us now, and the true traitors are behind bars."

"Yes," Will admits. "But it was not just me who saved her."

Hannibal laughs. "Mischa, my dear, would you mind leaving us for now?" Mischa huffs, tossing her braid back, and gives Will a mischievous wink before she runs to her brother and embraces him tightly, and then leaves his rooms with a swish of her skirts. Will watches her go, and laughs.

"She is a spirited Lady," he says.

"Alight with the passion of youth," Hannibal teases. "She reminds me of you, or how I imagine you were, at her age."

"I promise I was not quite so mischievous," Will replies. He approaches as Hannibal beckons him over, and sits. Hannibal drums his fingers against the edge of his table, a strange franticness settling over him, and he straightens in his chair, and turns to face Will fully. Reaches out, and takes both his hands.

"Will," he begins. He clears his throat, and looks so nervous. Will's head tilts curiously, and he leans in so he can make Hannibal meet his eyes. Hannibal's gaze lingers on him, from the marks on his throat, both new and weeks old, to his mouth, up to his hair. His eyes. Down to their hands again. His fingers flex, and curl, and Will finds his pulse is racing when he presses his fingertips to his wrists.

"My Lord," he says, breathlessly, smiling. "You are making me very nervous."

Hannibal's lips twitch, his eyes dark. He breathes out. "Will," he begins again, and then releases another frustrated growl. "I wanted…"

He stops again, and Will's brow creases, for he doesn't think he has seen Hannibal ever look so shaken. He leans forward and cups his master's face, gently brushing his thumb over the rise of his pinkening cheek. "Hannibal," he says gently. "What is it?"

Hannibal manages another weak smile, and dips his gaze again. "When Mischa became sick," he says, "I was in the process of courting a woman, a fellow noble. A good match, to be sure, but when my sister grew ill I ended the engagement. Not for any ill will towards her – she was beautiful, and intelligent, and would have served me well, but I could not bring myself to marry and father children when I knew my sister was so sick. And as time passed, I discarded the notion entirely. It felt like betraying her, like moving on, and replacing her with a child of my own that I could groom to take over from me when I was gone."

Will's brow creases, and he gives an encouraging hum, hand falling from Hannibal's face to clasp them both together again.

"But she is well, now," Hannibal continues, and Will blinks, a cold shred of uncertain dread curling up in his stomach. Of course. Now that Hannibal's sister is cured, he can go back to doing what a King should do. Marry, and sire sons. He swallows and braces himself for the blow.

"You may have stopped counting, but I have not." Hannibal lifts his eyes, and manages another weak smile. "We are but two away from your hundredth victory, Will."

Will presses his lips together, withdrawing his hands. "Oh," he murmurs, and rubs a hand over his face. Of course – Hannibal will see his contract ended, and then he will send Will away, and marry a suitable woman and sire children to carry on his line. Somehow, despite it all, Will never thought that would happen. Foolish. Arrogant.

"Will," Hannibal says, frowning, and reaches for him again. He can probably taste Will's distress in the air. Will sucks in a breath, and swears he will bear Hannibal's decision with grace and acceptance. It is what he owes his master, after all. "I would like to share the ninety-ninth with you today. But the hundredth, if you're agreeable, will be saved for our wedding night."

Will's eyes snap up, and widen with disbelief. He gasps, all the air forcibly removed from his lungs, and stares at Hannibal. Stares, and stares, until Hannibal huffs a laugh, looking down at their entwined hands. "Please, Will, have mercy on me."

"You would marry me?" Will breathes. He can't believe what he's hearing.

Hannibal smiles. "Yes," he replies. "I can think of no greater pleasure, no greater honor, than to have you at my side always. To help me rule, with your kind and nurturing spirit. To make the sun jealous, and to taste you every night."

He lifts Will's hands, and kisses his knuckles. Nuzzles his wrist that only recently recovered from his bruising grip. He kisses Will's pulse, and meets his eyes again. "I would make you my Queen, if you're willing. If you could be happy at my side."

What can Will do, but kiss him? He rises from his chair so swiftly it skates back, a loud sound on the stone, and pushes himself between his King's arms, mounting his thighs and settling over his lap. He kisses Hannibal deeply, both hands in his hair, sighing as Hannibal's touch rakes down his back in warming lines, passion heating Will's belly more than any hunger or fever ever could.

"Promise to keep me by your side," he breathes, "and I will never want for anything."

Hannibal is brilliant with joy, his smile wide, and he lifts Will onto the table and takes him right there, pushing their clothes to one side and using the jar of oil he always keeps conveniently close, since Will returned to him. Will smiles, kisses Hannibal's forehead, his cheek, his hair, as Hannibal bites at his collarbones and teases a nipple with his tongue, growls against Will's smooth flesh as he works Will open and gets him wet.

He pushes into Will and Will tilts his head back, clawing at Hannibal's hair as his King mounts him, gentle but no less passionate, no less gripped with fevered hunger. He braces himself on the table on either side of Will, hips rolling in powerful thrusts as Will sighs, well-used to this now, and hooks his feet high on Hannibal's back, angles his hips to the position he likes best, that lets him feel Hannibal as deep as possible and brushing along that sensitive place that makes him wild with heat.

Hannibal leans down over him and grips him by the nape, kissing Will with bruising teeth and searching tongue, and Will moans into it, loud as he wants because he doesn’t have to hide it anymore. He'll never have to hide again. He clutches at Hannibal, and then, in a fit of brazen need that surprises even him, he shoves Hannibal back and sends him stumbling a few paces.

He pushes himself to his feet. "Sit," he commands, and Hannibal blinks at him, but obeys. Will smiles, and climbs into his lap again, reaching down to grip Hannibal's cock and angle it up so he can sink onto it. He moans, head tipped up, eyes closed, letting himself feel how Hannibal fills him, how Hannibal embraces him, warm and hard and so strong.

He braces one hand on the back of Hannibal's chair, and cups his chin with the other, claiming his master with a kiss as he rolls his hips, taking over the rhythm for them. It feels good to rut his cock against Hannibal's clothed belly, but even better when he tears his clothes away and feels bare skin against his sensitive flesh. He growls and bites Hannibal's lower lip, watches with pleasure as Hannibal's eyes flash, golden in the receding sunlight, the beast in him staring at Will openly as though they have only just met.

Hannibal's hands flatten wide on his thighs, helping him move, and Will moans again, louder – a little performative, maybe, but he knows the lady Bedelia's rooms are nearby, and hopes she can hear it. Hannibal bares his teeth in a savage smile of his own, and he pulls Will's clothes from his neck and bites at his chest, sucking skin between his teeth until it reddens with new marks. Will groans every time he does it, belly tense, thighs trembling, senseless and animal as he works himself onto Hannibal's cock and feels the coil of arousal wind itself tighter and tighter inside him.

He drops a hand to his cock, stroking himself quickly, and Hannibal leans up, straining to kiss him – a thing Will must allow, but he does so eagerly, bending down to catch Hannibal's lips with his own. Hannibal tastes like wine, smells like Will, snarls at him like a beast. He is wildness, and control, and warm cave air and grand castles. Books and maple and sunlight through the trees. He is a garden Will has tended with gentle and capable hands, and Will is so proud to watch him flourish.

Will smiles at him, and rests their foreheads together. He's close, and he knows Hannibal is too. "Will I still call you 'My Lord', when I'm your Queen?" he rasps.

Hannibal's eyes flash, grow impossibly darker. "If it pleases you," he replies. "But I cannot wait to hear how capably you twist me around with my own name."

Will's smile widens, grows sharp. He leans in and kisses the sensitive, flushed skin of his King's neck, below his ear, and lets out a quiet, ragged moan as Hannibal takes over for him, feet planted on the floor, holding Will a little above him as he rolls his hips and forces himself into Will's tight body again and again.

"Hannibal," Will gasps, whining his name. Hannibal's lashes flutter, and he grows tense beneath Will. Will pets through his hair, presses as close as he can, and licks over his pulse. "Hannibal, my love."

Hannibal grits his teeth, clenches his jaw. His face tightens with restraint.

Will laughs, low, smug. He takes one of Hannibal's hands and presses it against his heart. Slides it, to his belly, and wraps both their fingers around his cock. His toes curl, his stomach tenses, and he bites down on Hannibal's neck as Hannibal comes – he is careful not to leave a mark, at least not one so high up, but Hannibal trembles beneath him, forcing Will's hips down hard as he tips his head back, coming with a loud, sated groan.

Will closes his eyes, bows his head, rutting feverishly on Hannibal's cock as he finishes, pulsing inside Will and flooding him with his seed. Hannibal's hand tightens on his cock and Will comes with a soft cry to his King's neck, staining his fine clothes and their joined hands.

He huffs a laugh, when he has the air. "Will you make me wait long, my King, before I can earn my hundredth?"

"I will marry you today," Hannibal replies, and Will laughs again. He knows it is not so – the marriage of a King is a grand holiday for the people, and in the dead of winter will require careful planning and much preparation. Not to mention the coronation, after, when Will receives his own crown. But it's a nice sentiment, and he kisses Hannibal breathlessly, as Hannibal softens and slips out of him.

"I think we should host a game," Will says, sitting up and resting their foreheads together. "My friends in the pits should be able to earn their victories, too."

"Whatever you wish, Will," Hannibal replies, and Will can tell he means it. Hannibal smiles, bright enough to rival the sun, and places a kiss to their messy fingers. "I will spend the rest of my life making you happy."

"You have already done that."

Hannibal hums, lashes going low. He leans up and kisses Will again, and Will rises, going to a small bowl of water by Hannibal's shaving desk, and rinsing his hands. Hannibal rises, and follows him to do the same, and Will pays no mind to the drip of Hannibal's seed leaking out of him. He quite likes the feeling, and likes how Hannibal's eyes grow dark, his breathing ragged, when he presses his nose to Will's hair and scents him.

The beasts in their chests entwine, and Will turns to Hannibal and kisses him, as Hannibal's dinner grows cold.

It is very cold, and the ground is thick with snow, but Will pays it no mind as he hurries through the town and towards the fighting pits. Despite the weather, the gladiators are still out in training, and this time the man does not greet him with a glower and nod, but bows fully, respecting the new fine clothes Will wears, and the circle of gold around his head marking him as a member of the court and a future Royal.

He nods to the man, smiling, and hauls his pitcher of ale to Francis, and Randall, and Jack where they are all clustered together, training to fight each other. "Hail, brothers!" he says. "I've come to pay up on my wager."

Francis blinks at him. "Damn me to every underworld there is!" he breathes, as Will grins at him and lifts the pitcher, handing out cups to them and filling them all. "Do you come to us as a free man, Will?"

"No, look at him," Randall says.

Will smiles. "I come to tell you in two weeks hence, you will see me as a Queen," he replies. "And you are all invited. I have told the King you may fight in performative displays, and earn your freedom there, if you so desire."

"Should we be kneeling to you, then?" Jack asks, brows lifting.

Will laughs. "If you kneel to me now I will call you a fool. Drink up," he says, and takes a drink as the other three do. The ale is bitter now, after so long nursed with Hannibal's fine wine, but it's a hearty enough brew, and he can tell it's appreciated by his kinsmen.

"Who would have thought, that our brother from the war is now Queen of this new land," Francis says. He is smiling, and clasps Will's forearm. "I daresay life in the castle suits you well, my friend."

"Remarkably so," Will replies. "I want you all there, as my guests of honor. We will show them how savages like to celebrate."

"Hear, hear!" Jack crows, and drinks again. Will laughs, delighted at seeing his friends so happy. "We will make a mess of that castle. Perhaps a noblewoman will take a shine to me. I'm quite charming, you know."

Randall snorts, and rolls his eyes, kicking a layer of snow Jack's way. "They will call you a dog, and be right to do so."

"Well, if you are granted your freedom, you may speak to whomever you like. I insist you meet the King's aunt – she is a cold woman, and has been kept in irons these last months. I think she would appreciate men of your caliber."

"Hah! The King has made our friend a jester," Francis says. Will laughs, and raises his cup in salute.

"Drink well, my friends. I will see you at the castle two weeks from now," he tells them. They congratulate him again, clasping forearms as they do, and Will leaves them with their pitcher of ale and to their merriment and training.

He goes to the soap-maker's shop, and finds the man sitting outside despite the chill weather, but bundled up thickly in many cloaks. "My friend!" Tobias greets, and then his eyes widen at seeing Will's new state of dress. "My Lord!"

"Please, just a friend to you, Tobias. You have been dear to me, and I wished to speak to you on an urgent matter." Tobias nods, and gestures for him to sit. Will does, gathering his cloak tight around him. "The doctor of the castle has been relieved of his duty. Your help was irreplaceable to me, and I wanted to offer you his position."

Tobias blinks in surprise.

"You can move your shop, and take your apprentice with you, and her son. The doctor had a nurse on his staff, and she is capable at medicines, and I think between the two of you, we will be kept well and safe."

"A generous offer, my friend," Tobias murmurs. "And one I would be a fool not to accept."

Will smiles. "Call on me if you need any help moving your wares. When you come to the castle, ask for a man named Franklyn, and he will help you and show you your new lodgings and parlor." He stands, and gives Tobias a gracious nod. "I look forward to seeing you, my friend. Thank you again for all your help."

Tobias smiles at him, and Will leaves, hurrying back to the castle. He dusts the fresh flurries of snow off his cloak, and spies Mischa and Hannibal speaking together outside the library. He approaches, and Hannibal turns to him with a warm smile, embracing him and kissing him, his warmth a welcome balm on Will's cold cheeks and hands as he wipes away the outside chill.

"My love," he says. He has taken to calling Will that, and Will adores him more every time. "Where did you go?"

"I found us a doctor, the same man who helped me with your illness," he says, nodding to Mischa. She smiles brightly, delighted. "And I visited my friends to settle my debt."

"Debt?" Hannibal repeats.

Will grins at him. "We each made a bet that whoever achieved their hundred victories first, would buy a drink for the rest. I was the clear victor."

Hannibal laughs. "Oh, but Will, you have not won yet. Your hundredth is still out of reach."

Will hums, his lashes lowering, and he kisses Hannibal gain. "Now, my King, would you make a liar out of me?" he murmurs. "You're right – I must correct this immediately, so I can retain my position as an honest man."

"An honest liar," Hannibal says, but Will is pleased to hear he has grown slightly breathless.

Mischa huffs, tossing her hair again. She fixes Will with an arched brow, and Will smiles at her, unrepentant. "It is challenging to be your friend sometimes, Will," she tells him with mock seriousness. "When you are near, my brother is beyond any other matter. He only has eyes for you."

"I will remove myself from his sight immediately, then," Will says solemnly. He bows his head, and they share a knowing smile. "My dear Lady, forgive my interruption."

She laughs, and Will pulls away from Hannibal, turning and striding up the stairs to his rooms. He hears, after a moment, Mischa's loud, exasperated sigh, and a quiet, "Go on, you foolish fellow." And he smiles to himself, hearing the sounds of pursuit. He bursts into a run, but Hannibal catches him at the door, and they collide and fall together through it, Hannibal kissing him fiercely and pawing at his clothes.

"Hannibal," Will teases, but does nothing to stay his wandering hands. "What happened to saving the hundredth for the wedding night?"

"Damn that version of me," Hannibal growls, and Will shivers, closing his eyes as Hannibal sheds the cloak from his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, baring his neck for his King's mouth. "We simply won't count this one."

Will laughs, and turns to capture him with another kiss. "As you wish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! I hope you guys liked my four-day blitz into soft royal boys.
> 
> Also please check out the art my wonderful friend TC made! It's so beautiful darling, I love it. <3  
https://twitter.com/Tc_book/status/1196194764854571008?s=20
> 
> Catch you in the next fic!


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